


Vertex

by JessenoSabaku



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Angst, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Grief/Mourning, Homophobia, Humor, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Character Death, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Piercings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Repression, Slow Burn, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2020-07-23 15:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20010310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessenoSabaku/pseuds/JessenoSabaku
Summary: In the Shimada family, tattoos are a tradition handed down through generations. They express what words can't. They mark lineage. They memorialize the dead. They bind friends into families. They also tell their wearers who they are destined to love. Not many are fortunate enough to find their soulmates in the vast reaches of the earth. Some are.McHanzo soulmates AU, requested by an anon on tumblr. More tags will come as they are necessary.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Been so long since I published a McHanzo fic. This premise was requested by an anon on tumblr, who really wanted a soulmates AU. Sorry that it took so long just to get the first chapter out! This turned out to be a much longer project than I expected. I hope it finds you well, and turns out to be everything you want it to be.
> 
> Just a warning for some of my friends out there with existential dread: this fic talks a lot about death! Probably most people will be fine with that, but just in case, I'm putting a warning here. Please be mindful if that makes you uncomfortable.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think.

“I said no, Genji,” Hanzo growled, careful not to let his frustration disrupt the stroke of his pen. A complex grid of curved, intersecting lines crowded his page.

Genji leaned on his desk, tossing his head back with a groan. “Come on, just this once. If you were in the same position, I’d take your clients for you.”

Laying his pen down on the table, Hanzo sniped back without looking up, “No, you would not, because I would never be so careless as to overschedule myself. Call your friend and tell her you can’t make it.”

“Have some pity, brother.” The eye-roll that accompanied Genji’s plea did nothing to make his plight genuine. “When Hana invites you to a party, you can’t turn it down.”

“You certainly can,” Hanzo argued, pulling up the appointment book on the shop’s computer. There, staring back in accusatory, rough pixels under the timeblock for Friday at 8 P.M. was Genji’s name with the completely uninformative note, ‘Genji, skull tattoo, for McCree.’ Not even a phone number was listed.

“I don’t think you understand the nuances of social networking,” Genji scoffed, raising an eyebrow. “Especially with celebrities.”

Hanzo scowled up at him and waved a dismissive hand. “Ask Lúcio to do it. I have plans tonight.”

As if the act of Hanzo saying his name had summoned him, the young artist came strolling out of the back office, throwing his shoulder bag around his neck. “Sorry, I can’t do it either. I’m DJing a party.”

“The same one I’m going to,” Genji emphasized to Hanzo, eyebrows furrowed meaningfully. “If you’re scolding me, then you must scold him, too.”

Punching Genji in the arm, Lúcio chastised, “Don’t look at me. I put in my PTO early.” He crossed his arms, shooting Hanzo a sympathetic glance. “If you really got plans, I’ll just put in a word for Genji with Hana. But if it’s nothin’ too big and you can stay, you’re welcome to time and a half.”

Not that Hanzo even needed the money, but at least that was more of an offer than what Genji gave him. Saying no to Lúcio was difficult, especially when he smiled at Hanzo with that well-meaning, affable air. Hard to believe sometimes that this man was their boss and not just their coworker. Equally unbelievable was the fact that Genji had managed to win a stable relationship with him.

Wincing in pain, Hanzo turned to Genji, who was already giving him the same shit-eating grin he always wore when he won an argument. Hanzo complained, “I have no idea what design the customer chose, or the quote you gave them, or how to contact them. You included no phone number in your report. You didn’t even write down their full name.”

Genji practically dove over the counter, reaching into the desk for an index card. He took the ink pen Hanzo had been using to draw--a very expensive illustrating pen that was meant _only_ for drawing--and began scrawling loose, messy letters onto the card.

“Genji,” Hanzo growled threateningly.

“His full name is Jesse McCree. Here’s the quote I gave him,” his brother chirped happily. From where Hanzo was sitting, he could already tell whatever Genji wrote down would be nigh unreadable. “The design he wants is in my drawer. I labeled it with his initials. And don’t worry about contacting him, I’ll give him a call and let him know about the change. He’s already in my phone--I just completely forgot about putting his number in the computer.”

Hanzo scrubbed a hand over his face, taking in a deep, controlled breath. “Please tell me this is not another of your ‘friends’ you picked up in a random bar.”

“Nope. He is a friend I picked up in a club, during my apprenticeship. We go way back,” Genji proudly claimed, casually dropping the pen on the desk in front of Hanzo. As it rolled toward him he noted that Genji hadn’t put the cap back on. Hanzo felt himself chafe in his own skin.

“If he’s anything like your other friends, I _will_ kick him out,” Hanzo threatened. “And he will pay up front.”

Giving Hanzo a comforting pat on the shoulder, Genji condescended, “Everything will be fine. Thank you, brother. I owe you. Give me a moment, Lúcio, and I’ll go pull the car around.”

He strode victoriously out of the shop, the bell jangling as the door slammed shut behind him. Hanzo watched him pass in front of the graffiti-lettered logo of their store’s name, Accelerate. From the inside the design was backwards, along with the little black and green frog that was Lúcio’s calling card in all of his business ventures.

Hanzo capped his pen, eyes flicking over to Lúcio. He did his best to keep his expression composed. “Is this paid time off for him?” Lúcio simply shook his head, loose dreads falling over his shoulder. Hanzo closed his eyes and murmured sincerely, “Thank you.”

Barking out a laugh, Lúcio clapped Hanzo on the arm and assured him, “I got you. Remember, company policy only gives him a few of these a year, right? Next time he’ll just have to deal. But this time … well, you’re doin’ me a favor, too. Hana’s gonna love me for bringin’ him.”

“As long as he’s anywhere but here, I suppose.”

A sleek black car rolled to a stop in front of the storefront, the top folding down to reveal Genji’s unmistakable green hair. He honked the horn a few times.

Lúcio held out his fist in invitation. “Keep cool, Hanzo. Time and a half. Remember to lock up the register when you go back to do the ink.”

The insinuation that Hanzo would forget raised his hackles, but he calmed himself and clumsily bumped Lúcio’s fist. Outside Genji laid on the horn again and Lúcio hurried to the door, calling goodbye over his shoulder. Hanzo watched as he ran out and vaulted over the passenger’s side door of Genji’s car. They sped off, tires squealing, and Hanzo couldn’t help rolling his eyes. Even in the simplest of actions, Genji was prone to theatrics.

Hanzo pulled the index card closer, squinting at Genji’s messy handwriting. The quote was a mere twenty dollars--way cheaper than what they normally charged for even their small tattoos. That sharpened Hanzo’s ire even more. What kind of work did Genji expect him to do for such a low price? He stood and crossed over to Genji’s desk, rifling around in his unorganized drawers for his current work designs. After ten minutes of searching he found a sheaf of loose-leaf papers and when he picked them up, a scrap of paper about half the size of all the others tumbled out onto the desk. When Hanzo turned it over, he saw a plain black skull on the front with the initials “J.M.” inscribed in the top right-hand corner. An additional note was marked below the letters, saying, “lower back,” to denote the placement.

There were no features that defined this skull. The whole design, from crown to jaw, was little more than an inch-long black smudge with eye sockets carved out. The teeth jutted out in a short row like a comb. He turned the paper over in his hand, searching the white back in confusion. _This_ was the tattoo? The one so important that made Genji pester Hanzo to cover his shift? This was stupid. A waste of ink that the client could take anywhere else and get filled in within the same day for next to nothing.

Hanzo tossed the paper on his desk and dropped into his seat, roughly rubbing one shaved side of his head. This must be an important friend. Probably one of Genji’s silly boyfriends. He was always doing this--inviting random people to the shop, usually men and women he met while on a night out, and leaving Hanzo to turn them away when Genji became tired of them. He had earned a couple of regular customers that way, but none he was happy to claim. One of them took some kind of party drug before the first session of a new tattoo, and following an unfortunate sequence of events, Hanzo had to ride with him in the ambulance all the way to the hospital.

Glancing back at the design, Hanzo felt an immediate loathing spread outwards from the pit of his stomach. The skull stared vacantly back at him. How uninspired.

-

At 8 P.M. on the dot Accelerate’s front door swung open. Hanzo looked up from some paperwork to see a tall, barrel-chested man saunter into the shop. From the first glance, Hanzo felt a keen sense of exasperation. Not all of the man’s attire evoked anything strange--his scuffed leather boots and mud-stained blue jeans painted him as a working man, part of the ordinary lower middle class. But when Hanzo saw the brown cowboy hat perched atop his head of shaggy, unkempt hair, this new customer suddenly resembled every man born from the Midwest to the South who had ever asked Hanzo the question, “What part of Asia are you from?”

“Good afternoon,” Hanzo greeted with as much professionalism as he could muster. Despite knowing the answer, he asked, “Are you here for an appointment?”

The man met his eyes and gave him a lazy smile. His nose and cheeks jutted out from a wreath of untrimmed beard hair. The sight of him made Hanzo itch.

“Yeah, I’ve got an eight-o’clock,” he responded in possibly the thickest, smoothest drawl Hanzo had ever heard. He cordially stretched out his hand. “You’re Hanzo, right? Genji’s brother? I’m Jesse McCree.”

Hanzo looked between the hand and the man’s face. Even though he really didn’t want to bother, he stood from the desk and shook his hand, saying, “Thank you for coming by, Mr. McCree. We are sorry for the sudden change.”

“No, thank you. I really appreciate you doin’ this for me. And you can just call me ‘McCree.’”

Sitting back down behind the desk, Hanzo pulled out the tattoo design and the requisite consent forms. He showed McCree the tattoo, confirmed this was the one he wanted, and had him sign. While McCree bent over the desk and scrawled away at the forms, he casually remarked, “I’ve heard a lot about you. Seen some pictures of y’all together. You’re shorter than I thought you’d be.”

Hanzo scowled briefly. How charming. He was certainly the kind of man that Genji would fancy--tall, broad, and willfully lacking in social grace. Hanzo reigned in his anger and sighed, “I cannot imagine what Genji has told you. Surely nothing good.”

“Depends on your definition of ‘good,’ I guess,” McCree replied with a cheeky smirk, handing back the pen and the forms. He was already exhausting.

“I’ve checked your file in the computer, and it says that you’ve been here several times before,” Hanzo started, scrolling through the file on the computer. “So by now you probably know the procedure. And you’ve had several lower back tattoos done by Genji, so I’m sure you’re familiar with the level of pain and your own physical response.”

McCree nodded. “It’s just a little stick-n-poke. I won’t pass out or nothin’, so don’t worry.”

“Have you eaten recently?” Hanzo inquired, wanting to make sure.

“Yes,” McCree answered with a wry smile. “This is old hat for me. I’m good.”

As Hanzo opened his mouth to ask for an upfront payment, he turned to find McCree already had a twenty in his hand, plus tip. “Whatever’s left is for you.”

Hanzo glanced up into his face, met his brown eyes, and allowed himself the briefest kindling of respect. He took the money, put it away, and said, “Thank you.”

After locking up the register, Hanzo led McCree to the inner workroom and had him lie down flat across one of the chairs. There was a brief, fussy exchange over where McCree could put his hat. Ultimately, the hat got its own privileged place in the middle of the other chair that sat adjacent to them, like a personal friend observing the process. As Hanzo pulled on his gloves and checked his equipment, McCree folded his arms under his chin and raised his eyebrows at Hanzo.

“I’m tellin’ you, it’s a stick-n-poke,” he insisted. “You don’t even gotta lay me down--Genji does ‘em when I’m sittin’ up all the time.”

Frowning, Hanzo retorted, “Genji is careless. If your back isn’t flat, the ink might be warped. I will have a word with him that.”

McCree snorted derisively, making Hanzo bristle. He grunted tersely, “Pull up the back of your shirt for me, and show me where exactly you want this.”

When McCree lifted the back of his dingy flannel button-up, Hanzo was surprised to see, lined in arching rows across his lower back, eight more skulls identical to the design he wanted today. Pointing clumsily to that area of his back, McCree simply instructed, “Doesn’t matter where it goes. Long as it looks somewhat balanced.”

Hanzo furrowed his brow in confusion. He shot a look at McCree’s face, whose furry cheek was mashed unattractively against the meat of his forearm.

“I’m not really sure what you--” Hanzo started, then closed his mouth. “What is this for? Is this part of a larger piece?”

“Oh. Right. ‘Course Genji didn’t tell ya’.” McCree’s eyes flicked up toward the corner of the room, landing on one of the many framed designs created by Hanzo, Lúcio, and Genji. After a moment of hesitance, he explained in a smooth, calm tone, “I got lots’a friends in low places, and friends like that tend to die. Whenever I hear someone’s died, I get one of these on my back. Just to remember ‘em.”

A sobering chill passed through Hanzo--the kind everyone feels when a stranger opens up about a deep sorrow, but there’s no connection, and only a little sympathy. Hanzo replied stoically, “I am sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be,” McCree told him with a grin. “When you’ve got those type of friends, you’re ready for ‘em to go at any time. Y’know?”

“Yes, I do know,” Hanzo responded, and that much he was sincere about. He had grown up in a yakuza family, which taught him how to prepare for the detachment of death. For many members of the Shimada group, they coped with loss in much the same way as McCree, albeit with a little more than a mere skull.

He squinted at the two rows of skulls and their sameness, differentiated only by the minute flaws of Genji’s subsequent reproductions. “I am sure that your friend looks down on you with favor for this. Should we perhaps add their initials?”

“Just do what’s on the paper,” McCree insisted. “I’ll remember who it is, ‘cause I’ll remember the feelin’.”

That was difficult to believe, but Hanzo wasn’t paid to argue with customers, so he refrained from inserting his opinion. His eyes skimmed over the rows of black skulls, staring back at him now with the gaze of dead men, and he placed his forefinger over a blank spot at the end of the second row. Near the spine, but not too close.

He asked, “How about here?”

“Works for me,” McCree murmured, resting his chin on his arms, facing away.

The tattoo should have taken under thirty minutes, but Hanzo made extra time. This was important. He had to get it right. When he finally finished the tiny skull, its hollow eyes stared back at him and he tried to look back through them, as if he could see the next world in their empty spaces. He then dipped his gun back in the ink and started touching up one of the many other skulls lining McCree’s back.

“Uh,” McCree piped up in a muffled tone, “What’re you doin’ back there, Hanzo? Feels to me like you’re goin’ rogue there with the design.”

Hanzo didn’t spare him a glance, instead concentrating fully on keeping his hands steady. “I’m touching up the other skulls Genji has done.”

“I didn’t pay for that,” McCree reminded him.

Hanzo finally shot him an unimpressed look. “I know.”

Meeting Hanzo’s gaze over his shoulder, McCree told him, “So I ain’t gonna pay for anythin’ extra.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you to,” Hanzo huffed, shaking his head and returning to work. “We should have followed the proper procedures the first time you came to us. Of course I won’t make you pay for us to correct our mistakes.”

McCree’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “That’s mighty considerate of ya’. But there’s like, a billion of ‘em, and I wasn’t expectin’ to be here that long.”

Giving him another deadpan stare, Hanzo responded, “There are only eight of them. You just focus on watching the time, and you can tell me if you start running late for your next appointment.”

That finally shut him up. Hanzo became absorbed in his work, the hum of the ink gun lulling him into a deep sense of calmness. At times his gun came close to McCree’s spine, and he felt the muscles tense beneath his fingers, though McCree never made a sound. Even so, Hanzo had felt him falter. In that moment, he couldn’t help but feel a connection to this stranger. That was one of the curious features of Hanzo’s job. The closeness, and the secrets that the body told, without the mouth’s permission.

He was learning that McCree was just as macho as he appeared from first glance, and Hanzo tried not to let the loathing he felt erode the grain of respect he felt for the man’s attempt to commemorate his friend’s death. With a tiny oil-drop of a black skull. Completely identical to all the rest.

Since McCree was so worried about leaving the parlor on time, Hanzo made quick work of the retouching and dabbed off the excess. As McCree stood up from the chair he grabbed his cowboy hat, perching it delicately on top of his head. The edges were frayed, and covered in mysterious, dark substances in some spots. Hanzo grimaced briefly. He would have to wipe down both chairs after McCree left.

They returned to the register, where Hanzo gave him care instructions and sold him some lotion to rub on the tattooed areas. To which McCree ungratefully replied, “You realize that my whole lower back is gonna be on fire for the next week ‘cause of you.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Hanzo answered, and for a moment McCree seemed surprised. Hanzo gave him change for his order and told him, “Thank you for doing business with us again. I hope my brother’s conduct will not deter you from returning.”

“‘Course not. I’m the one who gave him the go-ahead to do things the … wrong way, I guess,” McCree said, smirking as he took the money from Hanzo’s hand. “Next time somebody I know dies, I’ll be back again.”

Frowning, Hanzo suggested, “Hopefully the next time will not be under such somber circumstances.”

“Sure, sure,” McCree responded, waving his hand in a noncommittal way. “Well, thanks a bunch, Hanzo, for makin’ the extra time. I’m sure you’re real busy.”

His tone was wry and almost mocking, eye gleaming with a mischievous light that Hanzo didn’t appreciate. Hanzo ignored his comment and emphasized, “If you do come back for another of those skulls, make sure Genji does it right. He must pay his proper respects, and so must you.”

McCree pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “That your professional advice?”

“Of course. You may do with it what you will,” Hanzo replied firmly. “Now, is there anything else I can help you with?”

He received a searching stare, one that was not entirely friendly. Eventually the slight hostility dissipated and McCree shook his head.

“Naw. Thank you kindly for your work.” He stopped and scratched his beard, thinking hard. “What’s that y’all say? ‘Oh-su-ka-ray-sah-ma,’ or whatever? By the look on your face, I butchered that somethin’ fierce.”

Hanzo winced, maintaining the firm mold of his professional expression. “It’s … comprehensible.”

That earned a deep belly-laugh from McCree. “Just tryin’ out my phrases. Genji’s taught me a couple ‘a things, so I thought, y’know, I’d thank you in one of them Japanese ways.”

“You need not trouble yourself,” Hanzo said, which drew another laugh from his customer. He paused and gave McCree a quick once-over. “Genji taught you, you say?”

“Yeah. It was a couple years ago though, so I’m kinda rusty.”

A couple of years ago? So Genji must have known him for a while. At least this wasn’t one of the “friends” Genji picked up in the streets. Or if he was, he had made the cut to stay in the clique for a while. Hanzo couldn’t imagine why, though. Besides his honor toward his comrades, there seemed nothing else impressive about McCree.

His eyes lingered on McCree’s stupid grin for a few more moments. “We should be thanking you. We rely on our regular customers.”

“Even the ones who come in for twenty-dollar tattoos?” McCree asked him playfully.

“Believe me, during the slow months there is no better support than the teenagers with twenty dollars to burn,” Hanzo told him, shaking his head.

“Bet you have to do them little stick-and-poke beach waves a thousand times a year,” McCree snorted.

Hanzo dipped his head in agreement. Unfortunately. “You’d better be going, Mr. McCree. We must close up soon.”

“Just call me ‘McCree.’ Remember?” He tipped his hat. “I’ll see you ‘round.”

He sauntered out of the shop, letting the door smack behind him. Hanzo watched until he left sight of the front window, then let out a deep sigh. What a nuisance. And now Hanzo would have to talk to Genji about his poor etiquette.

Oh well. Time and a half. 

-

When Hanzo received the spiraling dragon on his arm, his father had personally wielded the needle. This was a rite of passage in the Shimada clan--a welcoming into the adult world. Hanzo had accepted it with a swell of excitement for the future, spread out over several sessions worth of agonizing application. During his youth, his father had always told him that tattoos were once engraved in blood. They drew people together with strings tighter than the bonds of kinship, and made unrelated people family. Such a sentiment was common among all yakuza Hanzo had known, who proudly displayed matching designs to tell the world who they belonged to, and who belonged to them.

The Shimada family had an especially precious relationship with tattoos, however. As soon as Hanzo reached adulthood, he expected his old-fashioned, practical father to begin arranging an _omiai_ for him. Hanzo once brought up the subject--as delicately as he could--and was astonished to hear his father’s answer.

His father, who had never once spoken of fate, told him calmly, “Since before you were born, the blood of the ink had already chosen a person for you. On that person’s body is engraved the image of your soul, which you will know on sight. If you have not yet had a vision of it, you will soon.”

“Is that how you chose Mother?” Hanzo asked him, still young and naive, trying to hide his confusion.

His father paused, a solemn expression stealing over his face. He shut his eyes and responded, “You will have the vision, and then you must wait. For how long depends on your fortune.”

Genji was the first to receive his vision. He and Hanzo had been strolling through the garden together, on their way to another of their father’s appointments, when Genji froze in step, a vacant look on his face. He knelt down and, unable to find a stick, feverishly drew with his finger in a patch of bare dirt. Hanzo crouched down to scold him, only to be distracted by the design, which appeared to be some sort of animal.

“What is that?” he asked Genji.

Sweat poured from Genji’s forehead. He replied, “A frog.”

Looking back now, the frog seemed fitting. Frogs often appeared carefree, easily gobbled up by the likes of a dragon--like Genji. Somebody quick in body and mind, full of energy, able to keep up with Genji’s pace. When Genji first began working at Accelerate, and begged Hanzo to come down and meet his new boss, Hanzo knew from one look at his design. This was the person fate had chosen for Genji. And though Hanzo had trouble accepting this at first, he couldn’t deny that Lúcio was the best thing that had ever happened to Genji. Even their father blessed the two of them, toward the end of his life.

Hanzo had not been so lucky.

At the age of twenty-two, Hanzo had his vision while sleeping one night. It came in the form of a nightmare, a swirling miasma of smoke, out of which appeared a black and menacing yet simple design. Though the tattoo blended into a black background, its owner shrouded beyond view, Hanzo’s eyes could trace every border of the carved-out image. The design mimicked the silhouette of a stylized human skull, its teeth stabbing downward like blades, and then curved sharply to start a winding trail around what looked to be the person’s forearm. A swath of black girded the upper forearm like an armguard, and then suddenly cut off, and where the person’s hand should have been Hanzo sensed a profound sadness. He knew from a glance this was the tattoo that his father had told him about: the mark of his betrothed. He could feel his own soul within it, black and despairing. This tattoo was also located on the person’s right arm, a complement to the dragon on Hanzo’s left side.

The vision terrified and excited him in equal measure. He could tell from a single look: this person was powerful. They were simple, logical, without pretense. They were beautiful.

He awoke from his dream with tremors and a fever, shaking so badly that he could not get up. When he missed breakfast, Genji came to retrieve him and found him ill, covered in sweat. He thought that the panic would never subside. He spent the whole day resting in bed, Genji tending to him with surprising care, and Hanzo feared a visit from his father. To his great fortune, and slight disappointment, he never received one. If his father had been there, Hanzo could not have retained his composure. He would have confessed everything.

He knew. The person that the ink had chosen for him was a man. For Genji, the cherished younger son, this could be forgiven. But the future of the Shimada clan rested on Hanzo’s shoulders. With a man, he could never continue the family line. At that time, he decided, if he had truly seen his own spirit in another man’s body, then there must be some defect in his soul. Maybe if he corrected himself he could change fate. He worked tirelessly to be a devoted son, to champion the Shimada’s success. He worked past his father’s death, and the dissolution of the gang’s social order that followed. He couldn’t remember when he finally gave up. He never received a new vision.

Since he first saw that tattoo, fourteen years had passed.


	2. Chapter 2

“That isn’t even _true_ ,” Genji groaned petulantly at Hanzo, languishing in his desk chair. “The ink would not have _cracked_. You are so anal.”

“So fond of that word,” Hanzo enunciated stiffly, not looking up from his drawing, “for one who has no appreciation for precision or exactness.”

“What, ‘anal?’” Genji asked, a smug grin on his face.

Sighing heavily, Hanzo retorted, “You should have put in more effort. His friends died. Is that not worth extra care?”

Genji rolled his eyes. “And if I had, you would have accused me of making a vain spectacle.”

While they glared at each other across their desks, Lúcio wheeled over to the door of his office, calling out, “Genji, leave the man alone. McCree’s a regular, so what’s wrong with a free touch-up?”

“I think Hanzo is just trying to weasel you out of extra money because he is mad I left him my customer,” Genji accused, narrowing his eyes at Hanzo. “Did you even _hear_ the bullshit he told McCree?”

Giving him an unimpressed look, Lúcio answered, “No, but whatever he did, it won him _your_ regular.”

That made Hanzo raise his head. He and Genji exchanged a shocked glance. Wide-eyed, Genji asked, “What do you mean?”

“Do you two even check your appointment books when you come in?” Lúcio muttered, splaying his hands. “Hanzo, load up your calendar. You’ve got another booking three weeks from Monday.”

When Hanzo looked on his computer, just like Lúcio said, he had an appointment next Monday with Jesse McCree. He scanned through the order details, and all the file said was ‘Same design as the last appointment.’ A sober chill rolled through Hanzo’s stomach.

“Oh come _on_ , he believed your nonsense?” Genji cried indignantly. “I told him he should just ignore you if you started raving. I’m going to call him tonight and talk some sense into him.”

“Please do,” Hanzo spat back. Not like he wanted to see McCree again, and his dingy cowboy hat that he treated with the dignity of a living person. He glared at Genji, adding, “And what, exactly, are your misconceptions of me that you so proudly share with our customers?”

“Oh my God,” Lúcio sighed haggardly. “I’m gonna close this door. Just try not to yell at each other when people are in the waiting room.”

His door closed with a soft click, and instead of bothering to answer Hanzo, Genji pointedly ignored him, an indifferent expression on his face. Anger boiled up in Hanzo’s chest. How fortunate that he managed to be born alongside such a disrespectful younger sibling. And after everything Hanzo had done to help raise him.

Turning back to his computer, Hanzo felt a drop of his frustration evaporate when he reviewed the order details. Two o’clock on a Monday afternoon. ‘Same design as the last appointment.’

He wrestled with himself before begrudgingly inquiring aloud, “Has … another of McCree’s friends died recently?”

He could feel Genji’s eyes on him, sharp and beady. “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“The appointment says he wants the same design as last time. And last time was …” Hanzo’s gaze flicked over. “The one you always do for him.”

Genji pursed his lips, leaning back in his chair. “Then I suppose so. He doesn’t talk to me about that. He just comes here, and he tells me he needs to add a death mark to his tramp stamp, and then he leaves. That’s usually when I find out.”

Closing his eyes, Hanzo groaned, “Show some dignity, Genji. That is _not_ what they are called.”

“Don’t look at me. He is the one who chose the placement,” Genji scoffed. When Hanzo gave him another wince, Genji shrugged and added, “He calls it that too, you know. He has a sense of humor, unlike somebody I know.”

Well, then Hanzo could freely relinquish the tiny kernel of respect he had for McCree.

“You have been friends for a while though,” Hanzo hedged, his tone almost questioning.

Genji caught his meaning. A thoughtful expression appeared on his face, softening the pinpoints of his eyes. “Yes. It’s weird, isn’t it? But that’s how he is.”

So McCree just … showed up every now and again, with another dead soul to carve into his back. He had done this to Genji eight times so far. Only after being lost in his thoughts for half a minute more did Hanzo realize he had stopped working on his current sketch. He felt disturbed, off-center, trying to rationalize that callous behavior.

“I will take him off your hands, brother,” Genji offered. “Don’t worry, I’ll call him.”

“That will not be necessary,” Hanzo responded with a scowl. Despite his protest, Genji was already tapping away on his cell phone, blatantly disregarding store policy not to text while at work. No rules or words of warning could stop him when he got an idea into his head.

They would probably reschedule together, and Hanzo wouldn’t have to deal with this mess anymore. Just thinking about those uninspired black skulls gave him a headache.

-

Only once in Hanzo’s lifetime was he allowed to give his father a tattoo. In their family, the ink was a gift passed down from fathers to their first-born sons. Just like his father, and his grandfather before him, Sojiro had bestowed the mark of the dragon on Hanzo, painstakingly tattooing the lithe, blue dragon onto his left arm. But on this occasion, Hanzo was the only person who truly understood the weight of the task, and its importance. He was proud to bear the burden, just as strongly as he feared the thought of making a mistake.

An integral member of the clan’s organization had just died. Someone Hanzo knew all too well, because she and his father had spent nearly all of his childhood working together. Her name was Shizuna. She was brave, strong, intelligent. She carried out all of his father’s orders without fail, and helped organize much of the gang’s operations. She presided over many of the recruitment operations. Hanzo could not say she had been kind, but she was wonderful, in that fierce and graceful way that all warriors of legend are rumored to be.

While all the clan members soberly mourned, Hanzo wondered how he should remember her. He rarely personally interacted with her. What he could most recall was his years of schooling, when he spent most of the day sequestered in the main hall studying with the private tutors his father had arranged for him. Though he almost never saw Shizuna personally, every week she sent men to take him out of the Shimada compound and into the city. She claimed it would further his “cultural education.” She advised him to forge connections with people that he met, in the hopes that the gang could screen them for recruitment later. Hanzo’s mother approved, and with two of the most powerful women of the Shimada bearing down on him, how could he disobey?

So he forged connections. Usually they didn’t last for more than a few months, but he had made some long-lasting friendships that way. Whenever Hanzo inquired about the recruitment process, Shizuna reported that her men were looking into his new contacts, and that she would get back to him. She never did. But she did remark that one of his friends, a store-owner downtown, was a good potential local ally. She suggested Hanzo apply to work at the shop, so he did.

Looking back, he had her to thank for helping him begin establishing a paper trail for his work history. At that time, he didn’t know he would need it.

She died in a gunfight over a territory dispute with a rival gang. Normally she stayed away from battles and only oversaw organizational operations, but she and her personal entourage happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They were ambushed, and she died in a crowded, worn-down district, gunned down like a dog. The police recovered her body. She had no family. The Shimada held a memorial service in her honor.

After that, Hanzo’s father chose to memorialize her on his body. He brought the design to Hanzo on a rolled-up scroll, which he had hand-painted himself. Hanzo unrolled the scroll to see beautiful black flowers growing up the length of the paper. His father told him that this was a tattoo Shizuna had, though Hanzo had never seen it. The edges of the paper were worn with age.

That same night, they secreted away to a storeroom, where Hanzo painstakingly inscribed the flowers onto his father’s back. He could still remember the clammy texture of his father’s skin, and the way he never flinched, even as the needles pierced the skin above his spine. Though his father kept a calm expression, Hanzo could feel his shame. That he could not do this with an audience, proudly memorializing her memory, caused him great pain. Hanzo felt great sadness for him, and yet dark pride, that he could share this secret with his father.

When Hanzo’s mother learned about the tattoo, she hung her head and cried for a long time. He had never seen her so melancholy. But she understood. She was Sojiro’s wife, so she understood.

The dead have more authority than the living. That was what the Shimada believed. They deserved to be remembered. They deserved to be treated like they were special.

-

Three weeks passed in a flash, alongside countless phone calls and assurances from Genji that he would “straighten McCree out.” Hanzo quickly lost faith in that promise. He could deal with McCree, anyway. He had handled far more difficult customers before.

“But it’s such a disgrace,” Genji complained. “McCree is my friend. How can I recover if he picks your work over mine?”

“It’s because you don’t take the task seriously enough,” Hanzo sighed, reiterating the point that he had already argued exhaustively.

“I _do_ take it seriously,” Genji retorted, a wounded note in his voice. “The only reason I gave him over to you was because I could not afford to miss Hana’s party. Lúcio needs me there to help him network, you know? I wasn’t simply fooling around.”

“I have a hard time believing that,” Hanzo scoffed, leaning back in his desk chair.

“We have been good friends for years now. Since before father sent you away,” Genji emphasized, brows drawn. “Just because he neglects to share his grief with me doesn’t mean I don’t care. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked you to take him.”

The hint of flattery caused Hanzo’s eyebrows to rise. Genji stared back at him, challenging and pensive. He was sincere about this. His upset showed in the somber creases around his brows, wrinkling the corners of his eyes. They must actually have been friends. Hanzo remembered McCree saying something to that effect, referring to a time when Genji had given him Japanese lessons. Friends that Genji did not tire of were few and far between.

“If you are regretful, you can just make a different choice next time,” Hanzo suggested soberly. 

“If there even _is_ a next time,” Genji muttered, absently checking his phone. He had called McCree over and over, and while surely they had talked, Hanzo heard nothing of their conversations. The Monday appointment approached unimpeded.

-

The bell above Accelerate’s door rang at exactly two o’clock. When Hanzo glanced up from his desk, he saw McCree lumber in, wearing the same exact outfit he had the first time they met, minus the cowboy hat. His matted and greasy brown hair almost made Hanzo wish he’d brought the hat again. Ants crawled in Hanzo’s skin as he eyed the mud caked on McCree’s jeans. Were those the same exact stains as last time? McCree loped over to the desk, giving Hanzo a sliver of a smile.

“Welcome back, Mr. McCree,” Hanzo greeted, already fetching the paperwork from his desk drawer. He eyed McCree questioningly. “You’re back so soon?”

The smile on McCree’s face widened slightly. “Seriously, just ‘McCree’ is fine. Mr. McCree was my daddy’s name.”

“Right,” Hanzo replied slowly. He fetched a pen and held it out to McCree. Their hands brushed as McCree gratefully received it, callouses scratching against Hanzo’s. While McCree bent over the desk and scribbled his name on the agreement, Hanzo inquired bluntly, “Another friend gone already?”

“Yup,” McCree drawled. “Was hardly out the door of your shop last time when I heard the news. But, y’know, tattoos need time to heal and all that. Thought it best to wait.”

Something in the tone of his voice piqued Hanzo’s interest. As McCree handed back the pen, their eyes met, and Hanzo scrutinized his face. His brown eyes were flecked with whiskey and haze, deepening the lines beneath them. Hanzo knew exhaustion when he saw it, though McCree wore it well. Against his will, some of Hanzo’s disdain softened.

“My condolences,” Hanzo told him, and this time he really meant it. “It is difficult to lose two friends in quick succession. I would not wish that on anybody.”

“You speakin’ from experience?” McCree asked, that affable grin still sitting heavily on his face.

Raising his eyebrows, Hanzo responded, “Are you ready to go back now, McCree?”

“Sure,” McCree answered, and Hanzo stood, leading him to the back room. He could feel McCree’s eyes on him the whole way.

As Hanzo pulled on his gloves and prepared the equipment, McCree sat down in the chair. There was silence for a few moments, until Hanzo saw out of the corner of his eye that McCree was sitting upright, and watching him covertly. He shot McCree a quizzical glance.

“Where’d you get the bridge piercing from?” McCree asked.

“My boss did it,” Hanzo replied.

“Not Genji?”

Hanzo scoffed, turning his attention back to his tools. “I wouldn’t trust him near my face with a needle.”

“Ain’t you bein’ a bit too hard on him?” McCree snickered. “I’m sure he woulda done fine.”

Hanzo narrowed his eyes at McCree. “I’ve already suffered the consequences of being his experiment more than once. At the beginning of his apprenticeship I let him pierce my ears, and the holes were so off-center that all jewelry I wore looked ridiculous.”

McCree seemed entirely unsympathetic. The shit-eating grin on his face made anger boil in the pit of Hanzo’s chest. “How unconscionable.”

“I told you, he has no respect for the craft,” Hanzo announced gruffly. “Now lie down, and lift your shirt for me.”

Thankfully, McCree did as he was told, but not without residual sniggering. Hanzo briefly surveyed the condition of the other tattoos he had touched up. They were all healing nicely. Seemed like McCree took good care of them.

Frowning, Hanzo asked, “The same as last time? Exactly the same?”

“Yup. Put it wherever,” McCree replied dismissively.

“You really should add some initials, or marks. Something,” Hanzo suggested. “It’s a matter of respect.”

McCree snorted and countered sardonically, “Anyone ever tell you that you’re quite the salesman?”

Lips thinning, Hanzo fired up the tattoo gun and got to work. “You ought to have asked Genji instead, then. He has done all your others, and without a word of complaint.”

“Nah, I’d rather not,” McCree murmured, breath hitching when Hanzo picked a spot close to his spine to begin inking. “Not that Genji does a bad job or anythin’, he just has a bad habit of forgettin’ that I got my own life to mind. Lotta important work to do, and when I make an appointment, I need ‘em to be regular, and be on time.”

Hanzo was grateful that he was behind McCree, so that his skeptical expression went unnoticed. “Really? What kind of work?”

“Little bit of everythin’. Warehouses, movin’ jobs, anythin’ that takes muscle. That and teachin’ kids how to shoot guns down at the firing range.”

A wave of nostalgia hit Hanzo. A few memories bubbled up of time in his youth, spent with his father out in the gardens, practicing archery. His father valued Hanzo’s skill with a bow and arrow more than his aim with a gun.

“Children? How young?” Hanzo asked, nerves fraying.

“Usually ‘round mid-teens. Youngest can start as soon as twelve years old, though, at least at the range where I work,” McCree informed him casually.

“And there are enough people putting money into this to make it a viable career option,” Hanzo muttered in displeasure.

“Well, it’s one way to earn your grits, that’s for sure.” McCree craned his head to stare at Hanzo over his shoulder. “What about you? How long you been doin’ this kind of work?”

Hm. How long had it been? He thought carefully and answered, “I suppose it depends. Professionally, around ten years. But I did my first tattoo when I was eighteen.”

“Oh yeah, I remember Genji sayin’ that this runs in your family,” McCree hummed, lowering his head again. “Your dad did that big one on your arm, right?”

Hanzo froze in his movements. He could feel the azure dragon around his left arm, curling beneath the skin, gnashing teeth covered up by the sleeve of his t-shirt. As if responding to the mention. A vague sense of threat rose in Hanzo’s chest. Why had Genji told him that?

“The custom in our family is for the father to pass on his mark to his firstborn son,” Hanzo explained, voice a jaded edge. He poured all his focus into the tiny black skull beneath his gun, forcing himself to be gentle. “That way he may always be there, watching over his child.”

“I wouldn’t want my dad watchin’ me all the time,” McCree crassly replied. Hanzo didn’t dignify that with a response. He merely gripped the gun harder, carefully coloring the last few cells of skin, watching with a sliver of satisfaction as the firm muscles in McCree’s back flinch at the increased pressure.

-

Their mother’s funeral was the first big occasion that Hanzo had to orchestrate fully on his own. He was twenty-two years old. She had died from some kind of poisoning, and Sojiro immediately launched a witch-hunt to find the culprit. No one was conclusively confirmed as the perpetrator, but nevertheless, heads rolled. Power structures changed. Old systems collapsed. Hanzo had a feeling he knew what had really happened, but was afraid to speak the words, lest they make the worst possibility a reality.

After her death, his father went into a state of near-catatonic shock, and for a few days, all of the family’s business ground to a halt. The grief Hanzo felt was vastly overcome by the terror of watching his father lie in bed all day, staring at the wall, unresponsive no matter how many times Hanzo spoke to him.

But she was dead. Funeral arrangements had to be made. She needed to be properly sent off, and everyone was waiting for guidance. This was the moment Hanzo had prepared for all his life. Seamlessly, he took over, and put together the entire service on his own, with a little help from his advisors. He planned a magnificent ceremony for her, replete with traditional practices, priests, and visitors from allied groups, who of course received armed escorts.

He gave thousands of assignments to hundreds of agents in the span of just a week. To Genji, he only gave one. Hanzo asked him to go to the florist and check on the bouquets he’d ordered. Genji knew their mother’s preferences: he would be able to confirm that all the flowers were the ones she used to love, arranged just the way she liked. The florist could then transport the flowers to the funeral location. A simple job, and one that was perhaps not entirely necessary, but would serve to put Hanzo’s mind at ease.

Genji promised he would, and the appointed day came and went. But when Hanzo sought him out to ask him about the bouquets, he was nowhere to be found. In fact, Genji went completely missing, sending the entire compound into an even greater frenzy. Hanzo frantically deployed some of their best men to find Genji and bring him home. Three nights later they found him, and he returned to the compound, shamefaced, with only one shoe, and 54,000 yen poorer. Hanzo confronted him afterward in his room, and they fought in fervent tones, but quietly, so their voices would not carry to their father’s room.

“I only meant to have some fun, brother. Everything was so heavy, and I just thought, since you had everything under control--I didn’t mean to be gone so long,” Genji claimed, fear in his young, bright eyes. “Really, I just forgot what day it was--”

“You _forgot_ ,” Hanzo spat out in disbelief. “Our mother is _dead._ You know how important this is to me, and to our father. It’s our responsibility to show her life respect and honor, and you just _forgot_?”

“I said I was sorry!” Genji shot back heatedly. “The flowers turned out fine, didn’t they? I heard from some of our men! There were pink peonies, and spider-lilies, and azaleas, just the way she liked them. It turned out fine, didn’t it?”

“That’s not the point!” Hanzo covered his face and took a shuddering breath, willing himself to calm down, but the anger kept crashing over him in a storm that had been building since he was born. His voice trembled and cracked as he ground out, “You were supposed to be _there_ , Genji. I gave you a chance to be there for me! I gave you the simplest of tasks, and you couldn’t even do that right! I’ve given you everything in my power, done all I can to shield you from this, and you repay me with _excuses_.”

Hurt bloomed in Genji’s expression. He opened and closed his mouth in shock, for once at a loss for words. Silence stretched between them, permeated only by Hanzo’s frantic breaths. Genji quavered, “You really think that I haven’t been there for you?”

Hanzo pulled his hands away and glowered at him through a moist film. No words needed to be spoken. 

A tear beaded in Genji’s eye, rolling down his cheek. The line of his mouth curled in a rotten shape. “Sometimes I don’t know what you want from me.”

He jumped up and left the room. Hanzo scrambled to follow after him, fussing, jeering, shouting, and eventually begging him all the way down the corridor to turn around. Genji simply walked faster until he reached the front door, then darted out and across the lawn, through the front gate. Hanzo watched him go, feeling frustration begin to sprout the first shoots of hatred.

The skin on his left arm burned, and he could feel the dragon writhe just beneath, full of power. Filled with history, and memories. A threat. A promise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I know this chapter took a couple weeks to publish, so I'd like to thank you for your patience. I was on a week-long trip to visit my partner and had very little time to write. However, we're back with another update. I haven't proofread this chapter as much as the other ones, so forgive me if there are some extra mistakes/weird issues. Any comments or feedback are of course, as always, appreciated!
> 
> And thank you guys so much for your support for the fic! I am glad that so many people enjoy the series so far. Feel free to talk with me and share your opinions at any time. I've loved reading the comments I've gotten so far.

Within another month or two, McCree came strolling into Accelerate again. He lifted his hand to wave at Hanzo, who gave him a hesitant nod in return. When Genji saw him his head snapped up and he practically vaulted over the desk to greet McCree. Standing next to the vivacious Genji, exchanging casual conversation, highlighted the broad slope of McCree’s shoulders all the more, and the wrought-iron wire of his limbs. Hanzo hadn’t noticed the first time they met, but now found it hard to ignore. McCree always seemed tired. At least today he was wearing a different set of clothes, as well as a new cowboy hat. Hanzo felt renewed loathing spring up at the thought that this man might own even more at home. He supposed that one garish statement piece wasn’t enough.

“McCree! How was the party?” Genji asked cordially, a warm smile thinning the edges of his eyes. “Did you get to go?”

“Sure, I stopped by. Can’t say I saw anybody that was happy to see me, though,” McCree responded with a shrug. His eyes flicked over and caught Hanzo’s, and he nodded wordlessly in greeting. Hanzo jerked his chin in return.

Genji groaned, “I wanted to go with you so badly, but _someone_ ,” he threw a glare over his shoulder at Hanzo, “would not allow me to leave.”

Sighing in frustration, Hanzo scoffed, “Should I have covered you again? Let you further develop your habit of making excuses? You did not put in your paid time off.”

Hands on his hips, Genji turned back to scowl at McCree. “Some brother _he_ is. When we were younger he lorded it over me how much he was supposedly my caretaker, but now, what is he? A sad man grumbling at a desk, developing lower back pains from that stick up his ass.”

Hanzo firmly plunked his pen down on the desk and growled, “I have never experienced anything of the sort.”

“And he’s almost _forty_ ,” Genji persisted childishly, spitting out the insult without bothering to face him. The petulance infuriated Hanzo, but not as much as the conspiratory grin on McCree’s face, who seemed to have heard all of these comments before and was delighted to hear the reprisal. Hanzo shook his head, burying the hot wash of anger in his work as he returned to finishing a design for another customer. 

“Well, you likely wouldn’t’ve enjoyed it,” McCree assured Genji, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. “Just a bunch of vets sittin’ around, chewin’ the fat. I was probably the youngest one there.”

Genji’s stance shifted, his body leaning toward McCree, casual and easy. He warmly patted McCree on the arm. “I have always enjoyed being your plus-one. Besides, as much as I love music and dancing, I’m capable of liking other types of parties. Your old military friends must be plenty interesting to hang out with.”

That pricked Hanzo’s ear. He carefully kept his eyes trained on his page, slowly inking the outlines of a series of geometric shapes, all compacted on top of one another. 

“Sure, sure. If you like debatin’ which side of the President you’re on, it’s rivetin’ stuff,” McCree answered. “I didn’t stay long anyway. Reinhardt and Winston weren’t even there, so it got boring. Everyone who was left just wanted to wax on about the old days, like they were good.”

McCree’s gruff laughter reached Hanzo, a derisive whisper of a breath. So he had been in the military, too? The more Hanzo learned about this man, the more he seemed like a jigsaw puzzle with no border pieces.

“Hey, Hanzo. You got time?”

Hanzo glanced up to see McCree staring at him out from under the brim of his hat. Those dark eyes squinted at him, a light piercing their surfaces. They saw right through Hanzo with unsettling ease.

“I am currently working on another project,” Hanzo warned him, having a hunch that he knew what McCree wanted to ask him. “What do you need?”

“The usual,” McCree told him casually, as if ordering from a fast food menu. Irritation slowly built inside Hanzo’s bones, making them stiff.

“How many friends do you _have_?” Hanzo asked in a disbelieving tone. “You’re likely to run out soon.”

“ _Brother_ ,” Genji snapped sternly. He had the audacity to give Hanzo a horrified look, as if he had not flippantly remarked on McCree’s “tramp stamp” countless times before.

Infuriatingly enough, McCree seemed in good humor about the whole situation. “If I do, I’ll still have Genji, at least.”

Hanzo rolled his eyes. “A prize, to be sure.”

“Don’t waste your time with him, McCree,” Genji scoffed, waving his hand dismissively at Hanzo. “He gets temperamental when he’s working. I am free, so I can do your tattoo for you.”

The smile dropped off McCree’s face and he pursed his lips thoughtfully. “But he’s done the last few. Why not let him keep goin’? Don’t wanna strip him of the extra work.”

“Your concern is quite touching, but I assure you, I’ll survive,” Hanzo snorted derisively as he scraped out a few thick lines of ink.

Eyebrows drawn in a wounded expression, Genji crossed his arms and insisted, “See? He’s fine. The only one being short-changed here is me.”

“I dunno,” McCree murmured, eyes narrowing into reluctant slits. “I like keepin’ my affairs consistent. Switchin’ artists all the time feels kinda strange.”

“I was your tattoo artist for far longer!” Genji argued. He smacked McCree on the arm and demanded in a tone Hanzo recognized as being falsely casual, “C’mon, McCree. It’s _my_ design, anyway. And I can’t imagine my brother is much comfort in … that type of situation.”

Frustration bubbled up in Hanzo’s chest again. Who was he to judge how much “help” Hanzo was to a grieving man? Besides, considering their job was not to counsel but to draw on somebody’s skin, Hanzo felt he had gone quite above his pay grade with his conciliatory gestures.

“Well, sure,” McCree admitted, “But he’s fun.”

Hanzo’s pen stopped moving. Reflexively, his eyes flicked up, and he watched McCree in vague confusion. Genji opened his mouth to make another retort, but he stopped short when Lúcio’s door swung open. Everyone turned to see him wheel out of his office in his chair.

“Oh hey there, McCree,” he greeted, leaning over the chair’s headrest. He glanced back and forth between McCree and Genji. “You two didn’t have an appointment, did you? I gotta borrow Genji for a while.”

“Nope. Just here to see Hanzo,” McCree answered before Genji had a chance to argue. Hanzo could only imagine the indignity on his brother’s face in that moment.

“Sweet. Got a moment, babe?” Lúcio prompted, angling his chair back toward the office.

Regretfully, Genji followed him, but pointed at McCree and Hanzo, mouthing a particularly vicious threat. The door closed behind him, leaving McCree and Hanzo to share a moment of awkward silence, wherein Hanzo gave him an uneasy look.

“How long ‘till you wrap up?” McCree asked him, completely unperturbed.

Hanzo searched his face, the rigid and unyielding rock of its frame. He sighed, “Give me ten minutes.”

Wordlessly, McCree plopped down into one of the seats in their waiting area. He pulled out a slim, gray smartphone that seemed out of place in his rustic, sun-browned fingers. Hanzo lingered on him for a moment before returning to work.

Fun. That was what McCree had said. That Hanzo was … fun. What a poor excuse.

-

The skull was an extremely misfortunate symbol. Not only for its relationship with death, but for the frequency of its appearance. Every half-baked yakuza member, former military member, and wild teenager had made the ill-advisable decision at some point to have a skull engraved on their skin. For Hanzo, even if had _wanted_ to find his soulmate, he might be sifting through a sea of doppelgängers for the rest of his life.

More than once, he thought that perhaps he had found his soulmate. After his mother’s death, once Sojiro recovered enough to resume his post, Hanzo began sharing more of the burden of rule with him. That meant he received his own personal entourage, and was allowed to appoint a handful of posts and teams that pertained to his work. He tended to choose people who were like him, who thought like him, and like his father.

A few times during this period, Hanzo discovered members of his entourage who bore the mark of the skull, in a design frighteningly similar to the one he’d seen in his dream. He did his best to distance himself from each of them. Some, he transferred to another chief officer under the clan’s command. Others, he sent out on extensive reconnaissance missions, far away from their home base. Only a couple had managed to remain in his inner circle. 

The closest he’d ever come was with a young man about his age named Mitsuya. He was an upstart in the clan who had risen through the ranks by demonstrating incredible dedication to completing his missions, despite the great personal expense to his physical form. He was fire, all wild and loud, so unbecoming of the likes of the Shimada. Hanzo had hated him fiercely, as well as his attitude, but this young man worked under Sojiro, so Hanzo simply had to trust his father’s judgment.

They had not grown close, but Hanzo had eventually developed respect for him. Affection, even, perhaps, at least for the fact that Hanzo didn’t have to conceal his distaste for everything Mitsuya was. There was an openness in that, one that Hanzo suddenly found had been absent in many other quarters of his life.

One night, after returning home from an operation, the two of them shared a room, and changed clothes together. Hanzo had never felt his blood run so hot, the fear a white lance cutting him through the stomach, as he had when he removed his gi in front of Mitsuya. The roof above him seemed crooked, the floor tilted at a precipitous angle. An urgent voice in the back of his mind warned him of impending danger. And yet, as Mitsuya turned his back and removed his shirt, Hanzo’s eyes lingered on the bare skin of his torso.

There he saw what he had anticipated. At least, in part. On Mistuya’s right shoulder, the silhouette of a stylized human skull, with sharp, rectangular teeth biting downward into the flesh, winding around the arm, but in a pattern that seemed slightly different than what Hanzo remembered. This was … the mark of his soulmate. Right? He had expected a shock of lightning, of recognition, but all he felt was emptiness in the pit of his chest. This didn’t feel right. The pattern seemed so similar, and yet not the same. Not what he had imagined in his dream.

The tension in his chest unknotted with such great speed that he felt rope-burn behind his ribs. This was not the mark he had been looking for. Relief cut through the disappointment with an intensity that almost made his legs shake. He turned away and finished changing, feeling a mixture of bittersweet emotions congealing into a hard lump in his stomach.

They left the room and said their goodbyes at the door. Mitsuya gave him a cheerful wave and disappeared down the corridor. Hanzo could only watch him go, feeling like he had missed something important.

Behind him, a voice called out, “You’re still awake?”

He glanced back to find his father, who was dressed in his bedclothes, leaning on his cane. A knowing, sharp glint pierced the iris of his eye. Shame washed over Hanzo in a crushing wave. Had Sojiro seen them together?

“I just returned home, father,” he replied. “I am going to bed now.”

Nodding tersely, Sojiro commanded, “Hurry on, then. We have much to do tomorrow.”

Hanzo briskly made his way back to his room, refusing to meet his father’s eyes. By the time he climbed into bed, he had resigned himself to the inevitability of what was to come. He shouldn’t be worrying about the issue of soulmates. His future had been decided for him. He had made an unspoken promise: to himself, to his father, to Genji, and to the Shimada. He would serve this world that he was born into.

The next day, Mitsuya was gone from the compound. Hanzo never found out where he went, or what happened to him. But Hanzo guessed that was the point. 

-

Hanzo dabbed excess ink off the next in a line of innumerable black skulls. “You should at least put their initials there, so they don’t all look the same.”

“Are we gonna have this conversation every time?” McCree groaned. “They’re dead, Hanzo. All corpses are the same.”

Nose wrinkling, Hanzo scolded him gruffly, “You won’t even consider it?”

McCree threw him an almost pitying glance, which sparked fury deep in Hanzo’s gut. “I got my own way of doin’ things, and my own reasons for doin’ ‘em that way. Now, if I ain’t wrong, you got a professional policy, too, that I ain’t required to answer personal questions.”

“That is true,” Hanzo muttered testily. “Though, I am also free to ask.”

The hypocrisy was what got to him. McCree claimed he had his own method of coping, and yet here he was, with a stranger, flinching under the tiniest of pressures. From Hanzo’s words, from the gun’s needles, from the ink embedded in his skin. Hanzo hated men who tried to act tough and independent when all it took was a little bit of scraping at their seams to make them hurt. He also hated flashy men, and while McCree certainly could not be called “flashy” in terms of fashion, he had yet again claimed a separate seat for his hat, and the whole spectacle was quickly becoming a stain on Hanzo’s eye.

As if reading his thoughts, McCree sneered at him, “What’re you gonna do, give me another freebie?”

“My kindness does not extend that far.”

McCree snorted and rests his chin on his hands again. “Then just do what I paid you for.”

This was the other irritating part of McCree. That he refused to take Hanzo seriously. Hanzo had recently begun to have doubts that he even paid the memorializing process any respect.

They finished up quickly, and McCree bought yet another bottle of lotion for his miniscule tattoo. Hanzo tendered the cash silently, caught up in his own thoughts. He knew he had to stop this arrangement from being prolonged any further.

As Hanzo handed McCree the lotion, he advised him, “Next time another of your friends dies, schedule with Genji.”

McCree raised one eyebrow, unimpressed. “What if I want to schedule with you?”

“He is your friend. He _wants_ to do this work for you,” Hanzo emphasized.

A rare flash of annoyance crossed McCree’s expression. “I’ve already told both of you, I’d just prefer things this way.”

“Yes. Because I am ‘fun,’” Hanzo scoffed, narrowing his eyes. “Take it from me: distancing yourself from him does no good. You can’t run forever.”

“Now, who said I was runnin’ from him?”

“You’re running from _something_ ,” Hanzo surmised, pinning McCree with a challenging stare.

Shortly after that, Genji reemerged from Lúcio’s office, despondent about his ill fortune but nonetheless energized enough to launch immediately back into banter with McCree. Thankfully, this ultimately drove McCree out of the shop without any further argument. Though, Hanzo was sure, this discussion was by no means over.

His suspicions were proved correct when, no more than a couple months later, another appointment popped up in Hanzo’s books for McCree. For some reason, just looking at the booking filled Hanzo with a rage more potent than he’d ever felt for another human being before. The effect must have been visible on his face because Genji, who sat at his desk eating part of his lunch, gave him a worried look.

“You alright, brother?”

Ignoring him, Hanzo grabbed the desk phone and punched in McCree’s number. While he listened through the first few rings, he pulled up Genji’s appointment book on the computer.

Hanzo almost thought McCree wouldn’t pick up, but after four or five rings, Hanzo heard his deep voice drawl through the speaker, “McCree speakin’.”

“Hello, Mr. McCree. This is Hanzo Shimada, from Accelerate,” Hanzo enunciated crisply. “I am calling to inform you that I will be unable to make our appointment this Wednesday at five o’ clock, and so Genji will take you instead. You know why.”

There was a pause. “You were serious about that? I thought you were just bein’ prickly.”

“I mean what I say,” Hanzo told him, typing out the new appointment details in Genji’s schedule. “I’ve updated you in the system. You should receive an email soon reminding you about the change.”

“Y’know, I’m surprised your supervisor lets you do stuff like this,” McCree murmured, a hint of a threat in his tone.

Hanzo retorted sternly, “My brother-in-law is my supervisor. I’ll do whatever I please.” Then he slammed the phone back onto its hook with a great clatter.

He breathed out in an irritated growl and sat back in his chair. He caught Genji’s shocked face in his periphery, and glared accusingly back at him. “ _What_?”

Genji quickly hid his face, but not before Hanzo glimpsed the smile on his face, and heard the soft puffs of his laughter.

Ungrateful bastards. All of them.

-

The wearing heat of the sun made the seconds stretch thin, until they refused to pass by. Perched on top of the gate leading out of the Shimada compound, Hanzo’s eyes roamed over the cramped Hanamura district, littered with low-income housing, boarded-up businesses, and a spackling of bullet holes. He knew so little of the world outside the compound, though he had heard of its dark markets and winding alleyways. He was to inherit the family business, after all, so of course he knew. Yet, he was already eighteen, and his father had never asked him to kill a man. Though, Hanzo felt he could see that moment on the horizon.

The sound of shoes scraping behind him caught his ear, and he couldn’t help a brief smirk. Within a few moments Genji was scrambling up onto the gate, plopping down beside him in the small, square opening that lookouts used to survey for incoming intruders. Hanzo moved to make room for him.

“Father has you on surveillance duty?” Genji asked, a little out of breath.

“No. One of our guards had to leave on an urgent inquiry and asked me to keep watch for him while he’s gone.” Hanzo examined Genji out of the corner of his eye. Genji’s cheeks were flushed with all the boyish wonder of an energetic child. “I checked the gardens and your room, and I couldn’t find you. I thought perhaps you were at the--” he spit the word out bitterly, “ _arcade_ again.”

Shoving Hanzo with his shoulder, Genji pouted, “I am not _always_ playing around. Father called me, so I spent the day with him.”

That was rare. Genji seldom indulged their father’s commands, and even less frequently did Sojiro have a day to spare his children. Jealousy tightened in Hanzo’s chest.

“Father wanted to see you?” Hanzo repeated, his tone mocking. “What have you done now?”

“Why must it be something I have _done_?” Genji sniped back, though his pout dulled the edge of his remark. “We simply spent time together. We drank tea, and painted calligraphy. Well, _he_ painted calligraphy, and I watched.”

“Is that so?” Hanzo replied, envy twisting its gnarled grip further into his chest. “You must have been thrilled.”

Genji turned to look out over the street. The moments passed by, a string waiting to snap, and Hanzo felt he was owed an apology. He knew that Genji knew this. 

As if in explanation, Genji continued, “I think he felt bad for me, after how he punished me for refusing to report for last week’s meeting.”

Sympathy touched a dark corner of Hanzo’s heart. His face softened and he asked, “Did he give you back any of the clothes he took?”

“Of course not,” Genji barked out in a cold laugh. “All of my kimonos and party clothes, gone because I didn’t want to listen to all those old men on the council. I’m sure he threw them away. Oh well. Some tea and painting and all is right, I suppose.”

“You could have just gone to the meeting,” Hanzo admonished him with a glare. “It would only cost you a few hours of your time. You have to start taking responsibility for the family.”

“Why can’t he ask me to take responsibility for things that I am good at?” Genji sighed. He stretched, elbow stabbing into Hanzo’s face, completely unapologetic. “I am good at socializing. He could teach me how to recruit. Meetings are what you and he are good at.”

“Need I remind you who had to fill in for you for that meeting? Do you not think _I_ was busy with something important, when you decided not to show up?” Hanzo scolded him heatedly. “We are like crickets on the same string. When you move, it affects me. We both have to know how to manage the family, or we will only get in each other’s way.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Genji answered. Hanzo glanced at him, ready to critique his noncommittal attitude, but he stopped at the sight of Genji’s conflicted expression. Sorrow filled the contours of his youthful profile. He looked over at Hanzo and gave him a smile that made his dark eyes narrow into slivers. “After that guard comes back, we should do some sparring. I’m in the mood to something.”

That drew a small laugh from Hanzo. He met Genji’s stare challengingly. “Such disrespect! Fine, fine. I am now in the mood to hit something as well.”

After the guard came back, they took off, and spent the rest of the afternoon beating each other. In battle, Genji was a bright light, a force that Hanzo some days felt he could put his faith in, and others, distrusted to the point of loathing. Genji did whatever he wanted. He wasn’t beholden to anyone. And somehow, he had been rewarded with his father’s presence, and his brother’s bruises. Hanzo especially always covered for him, taking responsibility for the tasks that Genji failed, and succeeded.

And as thanks, four years later, Genji abandoned him.

-

After their last conversation, Hanzo felt the matter with McCree had been tabled. No calls back, no attempts to reschedule. Honestly, Hanzo hoped he would no longer have to hold extended conversations with McCree. That wish proved futile when the appointment time came and McCree strolled in through the shop doors and Genji, the little shit, was late finishing up his last appointment.

“He will come out shortly. Please have a seat, anywhere you like,” Hanzo directed him.

Letting out a disgruntled noise, McCree squinted and asked, “Can I fill out the paperwork while I’m waitin’?”

“The agreement is between the client and the tattoo artist. He’ll have to give it to you himself,” Hanzo clarified.

Rolling his eyes, McCree flopped down on one of the lobby couches nearest to Hanzo’s desk. He leaned over the armrest, raising his eyebrows at Hanzo. “What’d I tell ya last time? On. Time. Boy can never get goin’ when he ought to.”

Hanzo wished he had something to busy himself with so he could exit the conversation. He flipped through his design folders for works that needed tidying up. “Surely you’ve built some extra time into this visit, then.”

He shouldn’t have responded. The confidence in McCree’s expression grew and he leaned in further, meeting Hanzo’s eye directly. “Well I had to, since the more punctual Shimada dumped me over our artistic differences.”

Hanzo abandoned his search and sat back in his chair, scowling at McCree. He seemed completely unfazed. Even his ridiculous cowboy hat, perched atop that grimy, shaggy hair, appeared to be looking down on Hanzo for his life choices.

“Now, since when are you an artist?” Hanzo retorted.

McCree gave him another unimpressed look and pointed to himself. “Them skulls you been doin’? You’re lookin’ at the original architect right here.”

“Architect--” Hanzo stopped short when McCree smirked at him, smug in a quiet, subdued way. It took a moment for Hanzo to regain his customer service sensibilities. He closed his eyes, brows furrowing, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I am not criticizing your aesthetics. We merely have a conflict in beliefs.”

“This just seems like a whole bunch of fuss over a few little letters,” McCree insisted, his voice murmuring like a brook over stones. “Why’s it matter so much to you? I’m doin’ what works for me. It’s my own personal mourning.”

While irritation festered in Hanzo’s chest and he tried to think of a way to respond, he searched McCree’s face, and his posture. The thumb and forefinger on one of his hands idly rubbed together, thumbnail scratching at a dry flap of skin. His legs were crossed tightly, the arm he leaned on too tense. And always, his eyes, so _tired_ , but now lit up from the inside, focused.

This was actually bothering him. Hanzo shot him a questioning look and received an unwavering, strangely solemn stare in return.

“If it _upsets_ you so much what I think and say,” Hanzo began, “you could simply bring a tattoo design that is not so macabre. Must you only come here to count dead bodies?”

McCree snorted and took off his hat, resting it on the coffee table in front of him. “Like what? Tattoo shops were made for stuff like that. Skulls, n’ spiders, n’ geometry. Hard angles and edges. How many people you get comin’ in to ask for somethin’ pretty?”

Hanzo scowled and retorted, “I personally find geometric shapes quite pleasant.”

“I find it hard to believe anythin’ makes you feel pleasant,” McCree replied, shooting him a self-satisfied smirk.

“Flowers are popular as well.” Hanzo glared at him, to no apparent effect. “Do you find roses objectionable?”

An infuriating sliver of a grin brought another hint of light to McCree’s face. “Well, I wouldn’t turn up my nose at ‘em if somebody offered me some.”

Hanzo rolled his eyes up and sighed deeply. He tried to summon Genji with his thoughts, command him to appear, so that he could come and free Hanzo from this inane conversation.

“You need not make this into an issue. He is only a few minutes late,” Hanzo chastized him.

McCree shrugged, holding one palm up in surrender. “Look, Hanzo, I know what you think you’re doin’ here. You’re tryin’ to help Genji out. But I got nothin’ against him. There ain’t no issue between us.”

His pitying tone and pretentious attitude were almost enough to make Hanzo snap. He enunciated sharply, “What is going on here, McCree, is that I can’t stand to see a job like this half-done. And I am not the one you should go to, anyway. He is your _friend_. When tragedies like this happen, a _friend_ can be a wonderful asset.”

“I appreciate the concern, but I am _fine_ ,” McCree insisted, raising one eyebrow.

Hanzo scoffed sarcastically, “Yes, of course. Handling it perfectly. So what exactly are you trying to prove to me, McCree?”

He watched McCree open his mouth, gape for a few moments, and close it. Wrinkles tightened around his eyes, little nuggets of gold buried in the bands of his dark irises. The fact that he couldn’t come up with an answer relieved Hanzo, and filled him with a warm rush of triumph.

A click came from the other end of the shop and they glanced over toward the back room, where Genji sauntered out with his previous client. He saw McCree across the room and waved expectantly, to which McCree reluctantly waved back. He and Hanzo shared a silent look as Genji took the customer to his desk and printed out care instructions.

“Y’know, when Genji told me how difficult you could be, I didn’t believe him,” McCree told Hanzo, calmly judging him, still poised in that position that he surely felt seemed more casual than it actually was.

Without thinking, Hanzo muttered, “If only Genji had told me about _your_ character.”

Making an expression of mock hurt, McCree whistled lowly and said, “Well. If a frog had wings, right?”

Hanzo stared at him in confusion. Wings? Why would a frog need those? His apparent difficulty seemed to delight McCree all the more. Hanzo was about ready to tear Genji away from his desk forcefully when the long-awaited artist walked up to them.

“Hey McCree! I can get you over here when you’re ready,” Genji chirped. He took a moment to wave to his previous customer, who was heading out the door. He caught a glimpse of Hanzo’s face and his eyes went round. “Whoa. What did I miss? Were you bullying Hanzo?”

“He was merely enjoying being a nuisance,” Hanzo declared gruffly. He retrieved one of his design folders and smacked it on the desk, ready to go back to work. Glaring at Genji, he continued, “If you’re quite ready, you can take him now.”

As McCree stood up to head to the work room, when Genji wasn’t looking, he sent Hanzo a disgruntled look over his shoulder. And then he was gone, vanished into the back. He was Genji’s problem.

He decided that he should take his break soon, maybe go tidy up the storage room for a while. He didn’t want to be around when McCree came out, at the risk of becoming embroiled in another pointless dispute. Honestly. All McCree had to do was respect Hanzo’s comfort.

As he grabbed the storage room key and left his desk, he saw McCree’s cowboy hat on the coffee table, left abandoned. The bastard had forgotten it, by some miracle. The front faced Hanzo, discomfitingly like a sentient creature, and so dirty he swore he could feel its particulates in the air. He paused near it for a few moments before gingerly picking it up. As soon as the fabric touched his hand, a thin scrim of grease sloughed off onto his fingers.

“Ugh,” he groaned in dismay. As quickly as his feet would carry him, he walked to Genji’s desk and dropped the offensive article on the closest open patch of work area. His nose wrinkled and he muttered gruffly, “Idiot.”

Oh well. Another of McCree’s friends had just died. And he had almost made a mess of his friendship with Genji. As nonchalant as McCree acted about the whole situation, he didn’t deserve to lose his hat, too.

-

“Hey Hanzo, know where the storage key went?” Lúcio asked, rolling out of his office in his chair. “I thought Genji left it on the rack back here, but I can’t find it.”

“I have it.” Hanzo turned away from his computer and retrieved the key from his desk drawer. He leaned over to hand it to Lúcio, who had awkwardly dragged his chair to meet Hanzo halfway. “I’ve been reorganizing our archives in my spare time.”

Lúcio gave him a sympathetic grimace. “That sounds boring as hell.”

“The mess was annoying me,” Hanzo explained. As Lúcio continued giving him sustained, skeptical eye-contact, Hanzo couldn’t help bristling. “What do you need in storage?”

“I did some celebrity client a couple years ago, and now they want me to pull the receipts,” Lúcio snorted, shaking his head. He was already kicking his chair toward the storage closet “Said somethin’ about his agency needin’ to reimburse him. Keeps tellin’ me it’s time he ‘collected his dues.’”

Hanzo winced in pain, doing his best to extrapolate the full implications of this cryptic message. “Why are all of our clients so inscrutable?”

He heard Lúcio bark out a laugh as he unlocked the storage closet and finally stood up, abandoning his chair so he could disappear inside. A vague sense of disappointment clouded Hanzo’s mood. He had hoped for a serious answer.

He returned to looking at his computer screen and reviewed his list of clients for the day. He had several back-to-back, the first of which was due to arrive in about an hour. While scrolling through to confirm names and designs, he heard the bell above the door ring. He glanced up, and immediately regretted acknowledging the massive headache who had just walked through the door, wearing a remarkably clean flannel button-up, jeans, and cracked leather cowboy boots.

“Howdy,” McCree greeted him, striding confidently toward Hanzo’s desk. “Been a while, hasn’t it? Couple weeks?”

“I suppose,” Hanzo replied gruffly. Not long enough, in his opinion. He scanned McCree’s posture, measuring the bounce in his step. Hanzo was immediately suspicious. “What has you so cheerful? You’re not back for another skull, are you?”

McCree shook his head. “Naw. I know you wouldn’t do one for me anyway.”

He leaned his hip against the edge of Hanzo’s desk, smiling in the congenial manner of a thief who had already pickpocketed the man he was speaking to. Hanzo glared up at him questioningly, sitting further back in his seat to put distance between them. This close, he could see a couple patches of fabric fraying at the waist of McCree’s dirt-stained blue jeans. Hanzo could smell him, too: a strong scent of warmth, dust, and cigar smoke.

“See, I’ve been thinkin’ over what you told me,” McCree drawled, pulling Hanzo’s focus back to the topic at hand. “About gettin’ a … happier tattoo. Y’know, somethin’ that ain’t about somebody else dyin’. I was hopin’ you could help me design one. D’you got time?”

“Now?” Hanzo asked incredulously.

McCree gave him a slightly raspy laugh. “‘Course not. But what’s Friday look like to you?”

That was a few days away. So, probably enough time for Hanzo to get his bearings, and be ready for a sit-down with America’s most stubborn asshole. He read out a list of times for McCree, who judiciously chose the earliest time block he could.

“I’ve already got a pretty good idea of what I want. I just need help makin’ it take shape. Here, I brought pictures with some of the main elements I want, just to get you started,” McCree said, and started pulling out heavily-creased slips of paper from one pants pocket.

“I’ve got a client coming up soon. I need to get ready for them,” Hanzo warned him.

Completely unconcerned, McCree hummed, “Sure, sure. I’ll just hand you these, and be out of your hair.”

He produced four folded-up pieces of paper, all of which Hanzo reticently accepted. McCree continued to stare expectantly until Hanzo unfolded each page to take a look. Printed on the papers were--respectively--a horse, a black-and-white copy of Texas’ Route 66 sign, a close-up of a screeching eagle’s face, and a vivid American flag, waving gracefully in the wind.

When Hanzo looked back up at him, mouth agape, McCree flashed him a smile that was bigger and brighter than any Hanzo had seen from him so far. The corners of his eyes crinkled with calm delight.

Hanzo was going to fucking kill him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Wow, it's been four months. Thanks for being patient, and thanks to everyone still reading for the first time, and hitting that kudos button so long after the last update. Lots has happened in my life. Mainly graduating college, which is what has taken up a lot of my time. But I'm back with another update that I'm super excited to share with everyone! This one is, again, proofread somewhat messily, so please excuse the sloppiness.
> 
> Things are starting to change between these two hopeless, messy boys! Let me know what you think, and of course all feedback is always welcome. Hope you enjoy!

“You can’t have all of that, _and_ a horse,” Hanzo admonished McCree, voice tightly-controlled. He clutched his pencil so tightly that the wooden frame squeaked in quiet protest. “It will look _ridiculous_.”

McCree lounged nonchalantly in the rolling chair Hanzo had pulled up for him. His legs were crossed, one hairy arm perched near the knob of his knee. This was the third time Hanzo had seen McCree wear that same goddamn red flannel shirt, which he had now come to associate with McCree so closely that the mere sight of it made him almost physically ill.

McCree shrugged and raised an eyebrow at Hanzo. “Well, sure I can. Long as it fits the canvas.”

“Even if I _make_ it fit,” Hanzo grated out, “all the detail that you want will be lost. Photorealistic tattoos only look good if they are scaled appropriately, and you do not have enough skin on your back for this.”

“Are you kiddin’ me?” McCree scoffed, shaking his head. A mussed lock of brown hair fell over his eyes and he brushed it away idly with one broad hand. For once, he hadn’t brought the damn hat. “You’ve seen me with your own eyes: there’s a half-acre of prime real-estate back there.”

“Perhaps if you had not asked for so many elements,” Hanzo sighed in frustration. He pinned McCree with a glare. “Too much is too much. You would have to be much bigger for me to be able to give you a piece worth the price.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” McCree told him, brown eyes clear and devoid of sympathy. He was lucky that Hanzo’s morals prevented him from disgracing Lúcio’s shop, or else he might have rolled McCree’s chair out into oncoming traffic.

A headache bloomed behind his eyes, like the connective tissues were stretched thin. Much like his patience. Below him on his desk, staring back at him in accusation, was a sketch of a saddled horse rearing up on its hind legs. A smaller, yet still quite large eagle--unnaturally big--roosted on the horse’s head, wings aloft, and beak wide open. Behind the unlikely pair of companions were the Route 66 sign, its innards colored by a Texan landscape, and behind _that_ was an American flag, billowing proudly in the breeze. Hanzo couldn’t believe he had even sketched an _outline_ of this, and he hated himself for it. He loathed McCree even more for making him produce it. The only blessing fate had allowed Hanzo in this awful situation was that Genji was not around to jeer at Hanzo’s misfortune. He was in the back room with a customer.

Using up the last atom of goodwill he possessed, Hanzo started, “If we reduce the dimensions of the flag, we could make the horse bigger. This allows for more detail--”

“No, no. That ain’t gonna work. The flag’s gotta be bigger’n everythin’. Elsewise, it ain’t American enough,” McCree interrupted, waving dismissively.

“It is a flag,” Hanzo deadpanned, presenting his palms. “I fail to see how the size matters.”

“You kiddin’ me? I’d be laughed out of every self-respectin’, God-fearin’ bar in the South with a flag that small,” McCree argued, brow furrowing. Just as Hanzo was beginning to wonder what exactly men used American flags to compensate for, McCree tilted his head and added, “You’re not real patriotic, are you?”

“And I suppose you are?” Hanzo shot back with a scowl.

McCree shrugged noncommittally. “The feelin’ comes and goes. But hey, it’s home, right?”

Face softening, Hanzo hedged, “You said before that you were a veteran.”

“You remembered that?” McCree replied after a pause, snorting through his nose. “Welp, yes, I was. I was in intelligence, if you can believe it.”

“I find it hard to,” Hanzo admitted, eyebrows furrowing.

“Well, I was. And bein’ in intelligence means I gotta keep state secrets, so I can’t really talk about it,” McCree told him, eyes darting over toward the door to the workroom.

“I don’t see the reason to bother with _this_ then,” Hanzo insisted in disgust, gesturing to the drawing with an open palm. “Since you are not so passionate about this country either.”

McCree raised one mangy eyebrow at him. There was mirth in his eyes, though his mouth refused to curve into a smile. “Why not? I like horses. And eagles. And I used to live off of Route 66 in Texas, when I was younger.”

“Texas,” Hanzo scoffed smugly. “That does not surprise me.”

“Hey, don’t look down on Texas. Back when I lived near Route 66, it was the Wild West, and you either got mean and smart livin’ there, or you laid down in the dust like everyone else.”

“You certainly do seem to have accumulated a lot of dust,” Hanzo muttered as he bolded the outer curve of the Route 66 sign.

He heard McCree pause again. After a moment, McCree drawled, “You never miss a chance to shut up, do you?”

Glancing upward in frustration, Hanzo found McCree smirking at him again, eyes twinkling beneath the shag of his hair. The warmth of his expression confused Hanzo so deeply that he began to wonder if he misheard, or failed to understand what McCree meant. He replied, “Pardon me?”

Ignoring his question, McCree continued, “What about you? Why did you come here? You and Genji lived in Japan when you were kids, right?”

Unpleasant images flooded back into Hanzo’s mind. Him, yelling, at Genji’s throat, and his father pulling them apart. Months later, his father, back turned to him, giving him his last mission as a member of the family. Reminding him to check his passport, in case he was stopped by authorities at any point during the trip.

His hands seemed to gradually grow farther away from the rest of his body, and his mind. He centered his focus into his pen, flicking it back and forth between his fingers.

Eventually, he answered, “After a certain point, staying there was no longer feasible. I had little money, and many who hated me. America was the easiest country to enter, and I had connections here.”

McCree kicked one leg over the other and smugly crossed his arms. “Yeah, I’ll bet you and makin’ friends get on like a house on fire.”

“I had _friends_ ,” Hanzo retorted, exasperated at McCree’s wealth of idioms, “just none whom I could take with me.”

“Funny. I woulda guessed you came here to be with Genji.”

The pencil paused in Hanzo’s hand. He stared at McCree, trying to measure his intentions, finding his face relatively unreadable, except for his apparent nonchalance. An edge to his tone, Hanzo asked, “How much has he told you about leaving Japan?”

He watched McCree’s eyes search him in a way that was unnerving, more prying than most people dared to be. “Just that he left your family on bad terms. You guys weren’t speakin’ for several years, right?”

The tension eased in Hanzo’s body, though he remained suspicious. He returned to his sketch once more, saying, “Then you know why I did not come here to be with Genji.”

“And yet, you’re workin’ together now,” McCree observed, shrugging his shoulders.

Sighing in exhaustion, Hanzo debated internally how much information he should volunteer. He had no obligations to divulge his personal life to a customer, even to a person like McCree-- _especially_ to a person like McCree--which might only give him more ammunition to tease Hanzo in the future, or to gossip. However, this was Genji’s friend. Perhaps the barest of explanations could not hurt, especially when matched up with whatever story Genji might have fed him.

“Several years after I came to America, we saw each other at a tattoo convention,” Hanzo started reluctantly. “We were both working in that field independently. After a few further encounters at other conventions, I suppose we realized that permanent separation was impossible. So now we are here, after much time and effort.”

“Back and better than ever,” McCree joked, giving him a crooked, sardonic grin.

“Hardly. He is still the same ignorant boy I knew as a child,” Hanzo answered derisively. Still, his heart softened at the thought of that young boy, the one that lurked behind Genji’s eyes despite how time and disagreements had estranged them.

Belatedly, Hanzo realized that McCree had leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. He still smelled strongly of the acrid scent of sun and sweat. The thin folds around his eyelids hid shadows, grime, and contentment. He suggested, “That’s what brothers do though, right? They make each other miserable.”

“You have a brother?” Hanzo asked curiously.

“Lord, no. But I’ve heard it builds character.”

Against his will, Hanzo snorted in amusement.

They continued to volley arguments about the design, McCree clinging just as stubbornly as ever to his poor choices. He leaned over the desk, close enough Hanzo could smell his foul, smoky breath, and placed his grubby fingers on the drawing to point out areas he wanted Hanzo to work on. In the process he smudged the graphite, which made the nerves at the back of Hanzo’s neck scream with fury. But for the moment, he decided he must allow it, since McCree was still a paying customer. Eventually, McCree received a text from someone, and said that he had to leave.

As McCree stood and pocketed his phone, Hanzo warned him, “This will look terrible. You are aware of that, aren’t you?”

“Naw. You’ll make it good,” McCree told him. He pulled his hat back on and tipped the brim to Hanzo, friendly wrinkles furrowing outside the corners of his eyes.

-

The family doctors delivered the news to Hanzo on a chilly autumn morning. Sojiro’s weakness was not a temporary reaction to his wife’s death. The physicians passed him medical forms, records from hospital visits which had been obtained in secrecy and at great personal cost, and his eyes drank in the disparate words like oil sluicing into a stone well. The illness had infiltrated Sojiro’s bones. Soon, it would migrate to every other part of his body, and eat him alive from the inside out. For the rest of his life, the proud man Hanzo had grown up with would never again walk tall and straight, and not without the use of a cane.

That was almost more unbearable than the prognosis. Not the cane itself, but the way that the cane would be seen. A false sign of weakness, in a man who could never be feeble, even when trudging toward his death. That enemies would no longer see Sojiro like Hanzo did, fear him the same way.

His father took the news just as calmly as any other announcement.

In the weeks following, Hanzo tensed more with each passing day, waiting in anticipation for his father’s call. And yet, weeks crawled by, with no word from Sojiro. He busied himself with administrative issues and ordering his sons to take care of strenuous physical tasks. Hanzo waited until the nights began dragging on without sleep, and he finally cornered Sojiro in his room.

Hanzo knelt at his father’s table, watching him stare out of the open screen door. His room looked out into the garden, filled with the red talons of spider-lilies. A vacant light filled his dark eyes with an uncanny glow.

“We must arrange for an _omiai_ ,” Hanzo told him.

Focus returned to his father’s eyes. Sojiro asked in a low rumble, “For whom?”

“For me, father,” Hanzo replied, hurt. “For me, of course.”

Turning slowly to him, exhaustion in every minute motion, Sojiro started sternly, “We have talked about this. The ink has chosen for you. Do you think you will find your soulmate by sending around your picture?”

Astounded by his father’s casualness, Hanzo answered with furrowed brows, “Find my soulmate? What is the point? I am thinking of the future, father. I must continue the family, build our organization--is not an _omiai_ the best option?”

“That will fix nothing,” Sojiro sighed, leaning both hands on the table. The sharp, tense line of his shoulders filled Hanzo with panic. “You cannot rush fate, Hanzo. It is good to think ahead, but if you stare too far into the future, you may make an unworthy choice.”

His words did not make sense. For Hanzo’s whole life, his father had emphasized efficiency over personal interest. The family took priority, and hesitation often did not beget fortune.

“If the woman is loyal and true, what does it matter if we are not soulmates?” Hanzo pleaded, hands squeezed together in his lap, body leaning forward. “Have you not taught me that our fortune is only as good as the choices we make?”

Sojiro stared at him, an edge of steel flashing in his irises. “My son, have you not already made your choice?”

“A choice?” Hanzo repeated dumbly, fear trickling up out of his spine and into his limbs. Surely he had made a mistake. When Sojiro failed to respond, Hanzo pressed, “I do not understand.”

Sojiro watched Hanzo in perplexion, the black bullets of his irises piercing clean through Hanzo’s chest. And yet, deep inside his expression rested pity, a greatly-subdued pain stamped into the wrinkles around his eyes. “Not just _any_ woman will do. Only fate can change you now.”

-

The sound of a text alert brought Hanzo back to reality. The quiet hum in his apartment walls reached his ears next, filling his head with sound, waking up his eyes, and he realized that he had been staring blindly at the backs of his hands as they rested on the dinner table. Underneath his palms was a draft of a new tattoo design--another wash of geometric shapes and lines--that he had begun in the absence of any meaningful evening activity. His chest felt heavy, grains of sand hiding in the muscle, chafing with each breath.

He leaned back to stretch his arms, then rubbed his face. If he could pass one night without remembering that conversation, he would suffer the rest of his lot in silence.

Another text pinged on his cell phone, which vibrated in his pocket, but he ignored it in favor of examining his current work. He frowned at the unclean edges, and at how the negative space between each line seemed mismatched by a few millimeters. Such sloppy work, for an artist of his heritage.

A sharp knock at his front door drew his attention. He turned his head in that direction, waiting in silence, until another rap came. Frowning in displeasure, he pushed himself out of his chair and went to look through the peephole. To his utter disbelief, he saw Genji standing outside, arms crossed impatiently.

He hesitated, unwilling to reach for the doorknob. Maybe he was mistaken. If he waited long enough, his visitor would walk away. This hope proved futile when Genji opened his mouth and yelled from behind the door, “I know you’re there, Hanzo--I heard you walking. Hurry up, it’s warm out here.”

When Hanzo swung open the door, he tried to appear less bewildered than he actually felt. He met Genji’s eyes, which were still as round and youthful as they had been when he was a child. After staring at him for a few moments, Hanzo stepped aside, and Genji took that as his cue to assert himself on Hanzo’s home.

He strode in without sparing Hanzo a glance, kicking off his shoes by the door. As he sauntered into Hanzo’s living room, rubbernecking at the sparse decoration on Hanzo’s shelves and walls, he commented loudly, “Wow, just a regular apartment, huh? You’re living beneath your means.”

“What means do you think I have?” Hanzo grunted, hackles raising. He saw Genji turn toward the table, leaning over his drawings, and rushed to whisk them away.

“Certainly more than you make use of,” Genji snorted, his expression unreadable. His brown eyes flicked over to Hanzo, filled with a hint of creamy light. “You truly haven’t changed.”

Hanzo scrutinized him silently. He wanted to ask so many questions. Why Genji was here. Why his lifestyle was of any concern. Why this was the first time in the years since they had reunited that Genji saw fit to visit his home, and critique it, in that homely way siblings might do.

Instead, he suggested, “I assume you will want some tea.”

“Well, since you insist,” Genji responded with a boyish smile. He shamelessly flopped down on the tiny couch that sat relatively unused by Hanzo’s television set, turning on the cable as Hanzo headed for the kitchen.

Hanzo silently put a kettle on to boil and turned toward Genji, studying the back of his grass-green head. He cautiously ventured over to the couch and perched on the armrest. They both stared at the television screen silently as Genji flipped through channels.

“How have you been?” Hanzo hedged.

“You see me every day,” Genji told him. His nose wrinkled up and he grunted in disgust, “You don’t have K-TV on here? So many channels are missing. Do you prefer streaming?”

“I only watch the news,” Hanzo told him, and was baffled by the utterly repulsed look he received in return. “If you do not like it, there are plenty of other apartments you can visit.”

“You have always excelled at small talk, brother,” Genji laughed, settling on a channel that featured an insufferably dramatic soap opera. Hanzo struggled through several minutes of it out of politeness, until the kettle started to whistle. He left, gratefully, to retrieve two cups and turn off the stove. Before Hanzo could ask what he wanted, Genji shouted back, “Make mine jasmine tea.”

Rolling his eyes, Hanzo fetched the jasmine tea from his cupboard, and made one cup for himself, and another for Genji. He brought them out, steaming, and placed Genji’s on a cork coaster on the small end table in front of the couch.

“To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” Hanzo asked sarcastically as Genji picked up his cup, blowing at the rim. “I imagine you did not come simply for tea and a chat.”

“And what if I did?” Genji asked challengingly. The firmness of his stare was such that Hanzo almost believed him. But eventually, Genji acceded, “I wanted to ask you a favor, if you had the time.”

“A favor,” Hanzo grunted as he took a sip of his tea, the jasmine petals tickling at his lip. “I should have known.”

“Oh, please. If I had come bearing no requests, you would kick me out at your earliest convenience,” Genji sighed, shaking his head. “I promise it is no great demand on your time.”

“It can’t be money you want,” Hanzo surmised. When Genji shook his head, Hanzo guessed, “Something to do with the office?”

“No such thing,” Genji told him. He offered his brother a sly smile, one that had always spelled trouble in the past. “I only need you to go with me to a party.”

-

As he entered the Herald Harper Center with Genji, Hanzo realized he had never until then been to a community center. This one was a touch less dismal and crowded than he imagined, with an open seating area surrounded by large, gridded windows that let in a swath of sunlight from two of the walls. Mainly families occupied the tables, a smattering of teens and adults typing on laptops, and young, snot-nosed children running in the spaces between the chairs. Hanzo tensed in displeasure.

Thankfully, Genji led them in a different direction, down a hall flanked by doors and plastered with fliers advertising events in town. A few caught Hanzo’s eye, but for the most part he avoided looking at them. At the end of the hall, Hanzo saw a large set of double-doors propped open, leading into a large meeting room. Genji led them inside.

The entire floor was bare except for a carrel of metal chairs and a few tables pushed up against the walls. In the middle of the room, two people stood talking--one older woman with a long, white braid, and a far younger man, thick and muscular, wearing mud-covered flannel, jeans, and a dusty cowboy hat. They glanced up when Hanzo and Genji walked in, and the look on the man’s face matched the buzzing sensation inside Hanzo’s chest.

“McCree! We got here on time,” Genji called out joyfully. He approached and pulled McCree into a shameless hug. He pulled back and gestured toward Hanzo, adding, “I hope you don’t mind that I brought my brother. I was thinking we could make him do the heavy lifting.”

Hanzo watched as McCree’s whiskey-flecked eyes lifted to meet his. They were several feet apart, but each detail of his face seemed crystal clear. There was something unsettling about seeing him outside of the shop, fluorescent lights beating on the crown of his hat, casting thin shadows on his forehead and cheeks. From his body posture, he seemed unguarded. Almost normal. And from the expression on McCree’s face, he was having the same out-of-body experience.

“Well, color me surprised. I thought you lived in the shop,” McCree said to him, making no move to close the distance. That familiar exhaustion lined his features. “How’d you get dragged into this?”

Hanzo answered dismissively, “My brother asked me a favor. How could I say no?”

The white-haired woman drew up behind McCree. Her brown face creased in a warm smile, one eye glimmering with a steely glint, and the other covered with a black eyepatch. She smacked McCree on the back expectantly, asking, “So you’ve brought some friends?”

“Just to set up,” McCree assured her. He gestured to each of the brothers in turn. “This here’s Genji--we go way back. And that’s Hanzo, his brother. Don’t mind him, he always looks sour.”

“I’m Ana. Pleased to meet you,” she greeted, shaking each of their hands in turn. As Hanzo clasped her palm, he saw in her eye a depth of knowledge lurking below the surface that he had only seen in the most hardened members of the Shimada clan. She gave him a serene smile and turned back to McCree, continuing, “I’m glad you brought extra hands. That way that fool Reinhardt won’t hurt his back any more than he already has.”

“I promise, we won’t let him put hands on a single box,” McCree laughed, a rich and smoky laugh that made a familiar annoyance prickle at the back of Hanzo’s skull. “What should we start with?”

“I could use some help moving the coolers and boxes out of the car,” Ana suggested.

Genji immediately volunteered, “I’ll be happy to do that.”

Smiling, she said, “Wonderful. We’ll let the big boys start setting up the tables, chairs, and amps.”

Amps? Hanzo exchanged a questioning glance with McCree, who pointedly looked away before affirming, “Sure thing, Ana. You just start carryin’ stuff in.”

Ana led Genji out of the room and Hanzo watched them go. When he turned back to McCree, the other man was already heading for a side door, which opened up into a large supply room. Hanzo wordlessly followed him in and saw the area cluttered mainly with technological equipment, such as slide projectors, extension cords, and microphones. Tucked in the corner were two huge amps. McCree knelt down beside one and motioned for Hanzo, who strode over and helped him lift it.

As they maneuvered the amp out the door and dropped it on the floor near an outlet, McCree asked him, “So why are you _really_ here?”

“Genji asked me a favor,” Hanzo repeated. He knelt down and plugged in the amp’s cord. When he stood, he found McCree leaning one arm on the amp, giving him a searching stare. “What do you expect me to say? I heard you and your veteran friends were having a reunion party, and I thought I would see the stubborn cowboy in his natural habitat.”

McCree gave him a long, unwavering look. One of those looks that picked Hanzo apart, reminded him that McCree had the potential to be an intelligent life form. “Sometimes I can’t tell whether you hate me or not.”

“I hate the way you behave,” Hanzo sniped back.

“You ain’t always a peach yourself,” McCree laughed, straightening and heading back for the supply room. He threw a glance at Hanzo over his shoulder as they walked. “Otherwise, I’d invite you to stay.”

“As much as I’d love to,” Hanzo replied in a deadpan tone, “I’ve been feeling quite pensive lately. It’d be a real shame if I had a lapse in judgment and said something at your party to disgrace you.”

“You threatenin’ me?” McCree asked him, eyebrows rising in surprise.

“I hardly believe you have the good sense to feel threatened, even if you needed to.”

He heard McCree bark out a laugh, and the tension in the air lightened considerably. They returned to the supply room and picked up the second amp.

“Why the amps?” Hanzo asked.

“Karaoke,” McCree scoffed, resigned disgust filling that single word to the brim. “Not my idea.”

Ana and Genji returned with their boxes, and after a few more trips, the meeting room was filled with metal chairs, tables, and coolers crammed with beer. While Ana unpacked a cardboard box full of snacks and gave Genji instructions on how to set up the refreshments table, Hanzo saw another stranger saunter into the room--a massive, older man with slicked-back silver hair and one milky, scarred eye. As soon as the newcomer saw McCree, he threw his arms wide and gave a joyous shout.

“McCree! My friend, it has been so long,” he roared in a voice that filled the room and made the door frame rattle. He had a thicker accent than McCree--German, Hanzo recognized. He strode toward McCree and wrapped him in a hug so tight that McCree’s feet lifted off the ground. After setting him down, the man laughed, “How many years this time? Three?”

“Hard to tell. I wasn’t countin’,” McCree replied, giving him an easy smile. “How’s deployment treatin’ you? Your back ain’t gettin’ in the way, is it?”

“Ahh, not too much. But soon they will stop letting me return to the battlefield,” the man sighed.

McCree turned to Hanzo, who tried to appear a bit less owl-eyed under the attention. He gestured with his chin for Hanzo to come, which made ire boil in the pit of Hanzo’s stomach. Nonetheless, he came, eyeing the behemoth of a newcomer as he drew closer.

To his surprise, when he came within reach, McCree placed a hand on his shoulder. “Reinhardt, this here’s my friend, Hanzo. He does my tattoos. Him and his brother came to give us a hand with settin’ up.”

One intelligent, steely eye focused on Hanzo, the other a hazy, white pearl. Countless battles rimmed his pupils, to a degree that made even Hanzo chafe. The shrub of his silver beard curved with the widening of his smile.

“The name is Reinhardt Willhelm. Wonderful to meet you,” he yelled enthusiastically, reaching out to clasp Hanzo’s hand. As they shook hands, he laughed, “Such a strong grip! _That_ is what I like to see. You’re hurting this old man’s fingers.”

Hanzo had trouble believing that, considering that if their handshake had lasted a few moments longer, Willhelm might have crushed all of the bones in Hanzo's hand.

Turning to give McCree a scowl, Willhelm murmured secretively, “You haven’t been conspiring with Ana, now, have you? I don’t know what she has told you, but I can move a few boxes around. You could have saved some work for me!”

“Just wanted to get the worst of it done early, that’s all,” McCree shrugged apologetically. He was obviously lying, but Willhelm seemed comforted. “Did you bring Jack with you?”

“I thought you were bringing him. I spoke with him last night, but haven’t heard from him since,” Willhelm sighed in perplexion. “I hope he isn’t thinking of skipping again. My leave ends soon.”

“I’ll give him a call,” McCree promised, already pulling out his phone. He tossed his head at Hanzo again. “Take this geezer and report to Ana. She can tell you what to do next.”

More anger stirred in Hanzo’s chest, but Willhelm’s fist smacked his shoulder, bringing him back to stare this mountain of a man in the face.

“So you are an artist! I am surprised. I thought perhaps you were from intelligence, though I was certain I’d remember you if you were,” Willhelm hummed, impressed for no reason that Hanzo could ascertain.

“I have never been in the military, no,” Hanzo answered. He shifted onto his other foot, uncomfortable.

“McCree and I never got the chance to fight on the same battlefield. I drove tanks, after all--that is the furthest thing from reconnaissance!” Another loud peal of laughter erupted from Willhelm’s belly. “I am grateful I only saw him in the war room.”

Brows furrowing, Hanzo felt uneasiness welling inside. He tried to imagine McCree killing someone, pulling the trigger on a gun, feeling the resistance, the way Hanzo knew it felt from personal experience. The thought brought up bad memories.

They reported to Ana, Willhelm chattering all the way, and as they helped her with more boxes the room began to gradually fill with more strangers. A few were decorated with uniforms and medals. Others leaned heavily on canes or rolled up in wheelchairs. A one-armed man engaged Hanzo in a spirited, one-sided discussion about fighter plane models while Hanzo unpacked soda cartons.

Once they had exhausted all their chores, Genji retired to enjoy conversation with Ana and Willhelm. Hanzo, unable to feel comfortable in such an alien environment, discreetly excused himself and stepped outside of the murmuring room. As soon as the door closed behind him, he sighed in relief. He hoped that he would not be asked to stay for the party.

In the quiet of the hallway, he heard the sound of a familiar voice, trailing off in subdued tones to his right. He peered around the corner into a branching corridor and saw McCree several yards away, sitting on the ground. He was propped up with his back against the wall, his hat in his lap, legs splayed and the thick gauze of his brown hair hiding his face. He appeared to be talking on his phone, nodding to himself and mumbling words Hanzo couldn’t understand.

Not wanting to intrude, Hanzo wandered in the opposite direction, glancing aimlessly around at the walls, and then toward the front of the community center. When he turned back to McCree after a while of fidgeting, he saw that McCree had hung up and was now sitting in silence, the thin line of his mouth set in a stiff crease. Every muscle in Hanzo’s body tensed. His instincts had always been sharp, and by now he knew McCree’s mannerisms well enough to sense a change.

For a long few minutes, Hanzo stared down the corridor, watching as McCree sat motionless against the wall. He seemed to be soldered to the plaster, a part of the building rather than a human being. The stillness of his frame reminded Hanzo of men he had met before in the Shimada clan, ones he had watched in the aftermath of battle, their every muscle filled with a familiar, nostalgic danger.

He approached McCree slowly, stopping a few feet away. “McCree?”

McCree’s head lifted in response, but his eyes remained hidden behind the matted curtain of his hair. Hanzo doubted he had truly heard.

Edging closer, Hanzo cleared his throat and tried again, “McCree? You have been out here for quite a while.”

“Come to check on me?” McCree joked, and if Hanzo didn’t know him, he might not be able to distinguish the listless note from the usual drawl.

“I stepped out for a break. Your friends are … energetic,” Hanzo replied cautiously.

“You’d think a few terms of service would take the piss out of them,” McCree snorted as he pushed himself off the ground and stood up. He pressed the heels of his hands into his lower back and stretched with a groan. “But Reinhardt’s still goin’, and he seems happier ‘n a dead pig in the sunshine.”

The lines beneath McCree’s eyes cut deeply into the skin. He glanced over to give Hanzo a look that had no glimmer of consciousness in them. Hanzo asked, “Are you okay?”

The question surprised both of them. Mouth opening and closing, McCree answered, “Yeah. Just tired. War ain’t exactly what I want to come back to after a day of work.”

“I know when you’re tired,” Hanzo pointed out, leaving unsaid the implication.

Raising his eyebrows, McCree scoffed, “Good for you.” He walked past Hanzo toward the meeting room, keeping a wide berth. Hanzo turned and followed him, jogging to catch up.

“Did you get in touch with your friend?” he asked.

“Yup. He ain’t comin’,” McCree responded curtly, staring down at the end of the hall. In the terse silence that followed, he added, “He got some issues to deal with right now, so he don’t got the time.”

They reached the meeting room and as soon as McCree grabbed the handle of the door, Hanzo’s hand flew out to grip his arm. McCree turned in shock, his stoic expression twisted by hints of exhaustion and confusion. He looked at Hanzo’s hand, then up to meet his eyes. Hanzo’s mind raced. What the fuck was he doing? But if McCree crossed that threshold, he would be stuck in there. He would be too stubborn to leave again.

“You’re not okay,” Hanzo told him.

“I already told you, I’m just tired,” McCree sighed, in that way that an adult keeps their patience with a child. “I know you think I’m an idiot, but a little sleepiness ain’t gonna harm me none.”

“Yes, you are an idiot, if you think that you can lie to me,” Hanzo retorted. McCree’s mouth twisted in displeasure. “You’re not okay.”

“Let go of me, Hanzo,” McCree ordered quietly, in a tone that brooked no argument. They stared each other down for a long time. Eventually, Hanzo reluctantly released him. Sighing again, McCree shrugged and began to open the door. Bubbling voices quietly streamed out of the widening gap.

“It seems pointless to me,” Hanzo interrupted him gruffly, “to go in there only to pretend to have a good time.”

McCree narrowed his eyes at him and let go of the door, allowing it to swing shut. With the ambient noise of the party suddenly gone, Hanzo realized how silent the corridor was.

“What is your problem? Tell me what you want from me, so I can go and enjoy my own damn party.”

“I just want you to be _honest_ ,” Hanzo replied, splaying his hands in exasperation. “Just be honest, for once.”

“Alright then. Y’know what I want? For you to stop actin’ like you’re better than me,” McCree snapped. He yanked open the door and strode into the meeting room, leaving Hanzo alone in the hallway.

Hurt bloomed in Hanzo’s chest. He dropped his arms and stared at the double doors, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. He shouldn’t be upset. He shouldn’t have even said anything. It wasn’t his place, and he knew that. And now, he would have to go back in there, and Genji would surely want to stay, and--

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Shit.

-

It took a while for Hanzo to muster up the energy to return to the party. And as soon as he passed through the doors, he felt an oppressive wash of artificiality, of joy forcefully produced in a place where there should be pain. Of course, when he scanned the room he found McCree, embedded within a cluster of friends, eating and chatting casually. Willhelm sat at his side, loudly recounting stories of war. McCree’s eyes met Hanzo’s briefly from across the room, and then flicked dismissively away. Another flash of hurt struck Hanzo, but more than that, he felt the usual anger rising inside. If McCree wanted to wallow in his own self-pity, then so be it.

As Hanzo predicted, Genji had fallen in love with his new military acquaintances, and informed Hanzo that they would be staying. Since Genji had driven them in his car, Hanzo had no choice. He busied himself with eating snacks and talking again with the one-armed air force veteran, who seemed to have taken a liking to him. This time, Hanzo welcomed the distraction. From time to time, his attention wavered, floating toward McCree’s side of the room. He observed the man’s posture, listening to hear the cadence of his speech, searching for signs. Then Hanzo would realize what he was doing and forced himself to focus on his own conversations.

At one point, he came back to awareness when Genji enthusiastically said, “Hanzo does archery! At least, he used to. Have you been practicing lately, brother?”

Hanzo glanced up from his plate to find several veterans staring at him expectantly. “When I can. I have to visit a range, and the closest one is twenty miles away.”

“Is that so? I have gotten into archery a lot lately,” the one-armed man interjected. When Hanzo gave him a confused look, he clarified, “I use my feet. It takes some getting used to, but it’s not bad.”

“Truly?” Hanzo replied, impressed. “When I practiced archery as a child, I had always worried what I would do should I lose the use of my hand.”

“Just use your toes!” the man laughed.

They became embroiled in a discussion about archery, comparing bow models and ammunition types. Hanzo gave the man pointers about how to improve his aim--as best as he could advise someone who did not use both arms to fire, anyway. By the time Hanzo realized how quickly the time was passing, Genji was at his shoulder, saying, “Party’s over, brother. Let’s help them pack up and leave.”

When Hanzo surveyed the area, he saw that everyone had already begun cleaning up. Willhelm and McCree had unplugged and lifted one of the amps. As they carried it toward the supply room, they passed Hanzo’s table. McCree spared him only the briefest glance.

With Ana’s help, Hanzo and Genji quickly put away the remaining snacks into boxes and moved the tables and chairs back into their places. They helped carry the boxes out to Ana’s car, which she had pulled up out front outside of the community center. She thanked them for their assistance with a handshake that was firmer than any Hanzo had experienced.

“Good grip. You must also be a marksman,” she surmised with a thin but genuine smile. He could guess her position in the military, and the thought nearly made him shudder.

The last two out of the building were McCree and Wilhelm, who were chatting and laughing. The latter sauntered over and thumped Hanzo and Genji on the backs so hard that they stumbled. He joyfully declared, “Thank you for stopping by! I could’ve handled it, but you certainly made our party easier to put together!”

“Reinhardt, no matter how big you get, your body will never match the size of your ego,” Ana chided him. Willhelm chuckled and bent down so they could embrace.

The two of them bid the group goodbye. Ana climbed in her car and sped off, and Willhelm lumbered through the parking lot to find his own vehicle. Turning to McCree, Genji grinned and said, “They were fun! For old people.”

“Mind your tongue,” Hanzo warned him, knowing full well that Ana and Willhelm were not the only soldiers in attendance who could have easily separated Genji’s head from his neck.

Genji ignored him, instead approaching McCree for a hug. “Thanks for letting us crash your party. I enjoyed myself, and I am sure my brother did too, if only he were brave enough to admit it.”

“Thanks for helpin’ out. You made some old vets real happy,” McCree replied with a smoky laugh. He purposefully avoided Hanzo’s eye, and so Hanzo returned the favor.

“I’ll text you later,” Genji promised him. “You ready, Hanzo?”

“Certainly,” Hanzo breathed out in relief. But as he started to step off the curb, one of McCree’s hands shot out across his chest to stop him. Hanzo glanced up questioningly and found himself caught by those whiskey-flecked eyes.

“Hey, Genji, why don’t you go bring the car ‘round? I wanna talk to Hanzo for a second,” McCree suggested, holding Hanzo’s stare the entire time.

All Hanzo could do was look over to Genji pleadingly. The latter raised his eyebrows quizzically, but otherwise wore no concern. He gave Hanzo a shit-eating grin and shrugged before bouncing off the curb toward his convertible. Loathing and despair filled Hanzo’s stomach. The years had not changed his brother in the slightest.

Eventually, Hanzo forced himself to look back at McCree. They stood in silence for a few agonizingly long moments.

“Did you enjoy the party?” McCree asked him suddenly.

“I suppose,” Hanzo answered. He pressed his lips together in a line. “Did you?”

“No.” McCree’s eyes pierced Hanzo with the shrewd judgment of a hawk. He was sizing him up, and though Hanzo had seen the same look on many a face, never had he felt it cut so keenly. He watched as McCree paused with his mouth open, in mid-thought. “I need a drink. If you got the time, I’d like you to come with me.”

Against his will, Hanzo’s eyes widened in surprise. The shock quickly dissolved and his eyebrows knitted together in offense. “To what end? So that I can ‘act like I am better than you?’”

“Now ain’t the time to rile me up,” McCree warned him, and Hanzo felt the weight of it in the quiet timbre of his speech. Controlled, and carefully so. “Yes or no? I’ll give you a ride.”

From the parking lot, the sound of Genji starting the car reached Hanzo’s ears. They both glanced over to the convertible as it pulled out of its space, back lights gleaming. Hanzo knew he should just get in the car and go home. Let McCree stew in his choices, and suffer the consequence of being an asshole.

“What should I tell Genji?” Hanzo asked tightly.

“That we’re gettin’ a drink?” McCree offered, nonplussed.

Hanzo shot him a baffled look. “I don’t _go for drinks_ with people.”

“Well congratulations: you start today.”

When Genji pulled up to the curb, McCree leaned in the passenger’s side window and spoke in low tones that Hanzo couldn’t hear. He patted the door twice and straightened up. Through the window, Hanzo saw Genji lean back in his seat and raise his eyebrows at Hanzo again, this time with a more perplexed expression.

“You got money for a cab?” he shouted.

Hanzo nodded. “Yes. I will be fine.”

“Well, alright. See you later, then,” Genji replied, rolling up the window. He pulled away and drove off.

That left Hanzo alone with McCree.

-

The curtain of evening had only just begun to roll out when they pulled up to the bar in McCree’s dingy pickup truck. Hanzo practically flew out of the truck, eager to get away from all the crumpled napkins and fast food garbage McCree stored in the floorboards. The bar itself did not look much better: just a run-down pub with a sign painted on the outer wall, it was little more than a rectangle plastered in peeling paint.

“It’s quiet in here,” McCree told him as they walked inside. “‘Specially during the daytime.”

The inside was drab and unremarkable, besides the rather extensive collection of bottles on the shelves behind the bar. Several booths lined the walls, and by the red, crumbling vinyl, Hanzo surmised this pub had taken up residence in a former diner. McCree took one of the booths toward the back without asking Hanzo’s preference. Only after they sat down did Hanzo realize McCree had left his hat in the truck with the rest of his trash.

“I heard that in Japan you gotta match each other drink for drink,” McCree drawled. His eyes skimmed Hanzo’s face expectantly. “So that’s what we’re gonna do. Awright?”

This wasn’t a request. Hanzo nodded, suspicion welling in his chest. McCree got up to fetch them drinks from the bar, and after paying, he returned with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. Ice clinked in the glasses as he set them down on the table, white steam wafting up over McCree’s thick fingers. He poured each of them a shot and raised his cup, waiting until Hanzo matched him to drink. Hanzo threw back the whiskey, grunting as he felt it burn down his throat. Almost as soon as he set his glass back down, McCree filled it up again. They both took a second shot, this one rougher than the first. This was potentially the shittiest whiskey Hanzo had ever had, and drinking it felt like swallowing a cheesecloth.

McCree plunked his cup down and let out a breath. “Before I tell you this, I need you to know somethin’. I know about you and Genji. Where you come from, if you catch my drift.”

Hanzo’s vision narrowed to a point. His muscles tensed defensively, ready to strike, while McCree kept that level-headed gaze planted firmly on him. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“You do. You don’t gotta say it, and I don’t want to, neither. Walls have ears.” McCree poured them both another glass, and Hanzo felt immediately unwilling to take the next drink. “I just need you to know that I know, and that I’ve kept your secret. Me and Genji have been friends for years, and I’ve kept everythin’ private, even your last name. So you owe me a secret, too.”

“What are you getting at?” Hanzo asked, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling.

For a long while, McCree was silent. He ran a hand through his matted hair, tired eyes flicking over to one corner of the bar. He gnawed at his bottom lip briefly before sitting up. He kept his gaze on the tabletop, thumping one finger on the rim of his glass.

“I come from dirty money. Not by heritage, mind, but by my own choice. Do you feel me?”

Hanzo’s blood froze, in a way that felt familiar, and not unwelcome. He had been in a gang. He seemed to be waiting for a response, so Hanzo said quietly, hands curling on the table, “I do.”

“From what I hear, y’all had decorum about the way you did things. We were all violence. None of us wanted to work, but we sure loved fightin’, and that’s what we were good at,” McCree explained with the detachment of a neutral observer. He took the next shot, and waited until Hanzo did the same. “You were a family. We were … a company.”

Hanzo interjected with a hiss, “Why are you telling me this? You could get in--”

“If you don’t hold your tongue, I’m gonna hold it for you,” McCree threatened. Mouth snapping shut, Hanzo scowled in offense. “You remember when I told you I had friends in low places? And you remember how those friends keep dyin’?”

Expression softening rapidly, Hanzo guessed, “Then … those friends--your skulls--”

McCree nodded. His eyes seemed only half open, hooded by exhaustion, but no less sharp than they had been when he confronted Hanzo outside the community center. He lifted his glass, and Hanzo, ever dutiful, matched him. They threw back another shot and the world began to blur softly at the edges.

“I know you want me to get initials, and you’re always appealin’ to my sense of guilt, but I don’t feel guilty. Obligated, sure. But we weren’t family--we were coworkers.” McCree stared down at his cup, swirling the amber liquid around in his glass, which Hanzo hadn’t noticed him refilling. “Had some friends, some real good friends, but they’re still alive. _These_ guys … well, I guess you spend enough time ‘round a person, and you feel like you owe ‘em _somethin’_.”

He glanced up and met Hanzo’s eyes firmly, almost in challenge. “I don’t get their initials ‘cause I don’t want to remember ‘em. And it hurts to see ‘em gone, but I sure as hell don’t miss ‘em. Some of the guys on my back have nearly killed me, or left me to the dogs when I was inconvenient. I got no respect for men like that. But you can’t stand side-by-side with a person for years, and then do nothin’ when they’re gone.”

Hanzo felt an inkling of respect stain his heart. He had once thought McCree had no honorable bone in his body. Though paying homage only halfway was just as bad as doing nothing at all, Hanzo felt his image of McCree changing, and he observed his face carefully, taking in this new iteration. The rugged cut of his solemn jaw and cheeks caught the dim overhead lights, casting shadows like the peaks of a mountain. His short eyelashes dusted them like tufts of grass peeking through the melted snow caps.

“So what about this time?” Hanzo asked. “Who did you lose?”

McCree froze, lips parting in surprise. The pale listlessness of his expression lifted, melting into a bronze flush of vexation. He closed his mouth and scrubbed one hand over his face, focusing again on another part of the room. Tinny country music from small speakers at the back of the pub disturbed the silence.

Lips setting in a thin line, Hanzo leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before turning to a nearby window. He felt a great need to say something, to say the right thing, but he had no idea what he even thought about this situation, besides anxiousness. McCree never acted like this. He never looked this way--he wasn’t _supposed_ to. He was all corded limbs, congenial smiles, and barbed commentary. But now he was submitting himself to Hanzo’s scrutiny. And Hanzo knew himself enough to recognize his own ruthlessness.

“If you think you owe this to me, you don’t,” he said quietly. “I was … concerned for you. At the party. Perhaps it was not my place.”

More silence. Then, McCree gave a huff of derisive laughter. “If this is a fancy way of sayin’ you don’t wanna hear, just tell me straight. I can handle it.”

Appalled, Hanzo turned back to McCree and met his gaze once more. The ring of his iris seemed hazy, burning with an ember of hurt.

“That is not what I’m saying. What I mean,” Hanzo started again, checking his frustration with a deep breath, “is that if this is your way of apologizing, you don’t owe me your privacy. If I did not care to hear, why would I ask?”

“Dunno. Nothin’ you do makes much sense,” McCree sighed, as if in explanation.

“You are the one who is inscrutable,” Hanzo muttered petulantly. McCree’s nostrils flared with another snort. Before Hanzo could open his mouth again, McCree raised his shot glass and waited. Grunting in disgust, Hanzo threw back another shot with him. He set the glass down with a decisive clunk and, emboldened by the new rush of fire, stared McCree firmly in the eyes. “So then, tell me. Who did you lose?”

McCree gnawed on his lip a few moments. Movement drew Hanzo’s sight downwards. McCree had begun drumming his fingers on the table, each subtle vibration traveling just far enough to slip underneath the spread of Hanzo’s hands. It held such a solid presence in his focus that he realized how malleable the rest of the world felt with five shots in his system. Five? Four? Six? He thought it was five. While he internally debated the accuracy of his math, he couldn’t help noticing the ridges in the rough, sun-worn skin of McCree’s knuckles. They were strong hands--Hanzo could tell at a glance. Working hands.

“The reason I went into the military--” McCree started, before his mouth snapped shut. He groaned and tried again, “I met this man. He and the feds blew into town, fucked us sideways, and arrested us. He gave me a choice: go to maximum security prison, or use my skills for intelligence. Though I didn’t realize it then, he saved my life. The only thing I knew back then was hate. I was good at bein’ bad, but I had no pride in my work. When I went into the military, I was still doin’ bad shit, but for better people. For better reasons. For reasons that mattered.”

He closed his eyes, overcome by a memory. The knob in his throat bobbed with a heavy swallow. He was so solemn, so stoic, that he could have just as likely been asleep if Hanzo didn’t know any better. After a moment he leaned one elbow on the table and rested his head on his hand. The wide span of his palm concealed his face.

“He told me that when someone dies, you can’t be afraid of them goin’. Dyin’ is somethin’ we all gotta do someday, so instead of mournin’, you gotta celebrate life. I don’t honestly know if he was just raised that way, or if he had to believe it in order to let so many of his men die. Can’t tell you how many times he almost let _me_ die.”

He paused and took a deep breath through his nose. When he opened his eyes, Hanzo was already pouring him another drink, pushing the glass toward him with two fingers. McCree glanced up, then back down and numbly grabbed the drink. This time he just sipped it.

“He was crazy. He was terrible. If he had the chance, he’d burn the ground I walked on, he hated my ass so much sometimes, but he--he’d make a nook in his heart, just for you. He had a way of makin’ you feel special.”

“How did he die?” Hanzo asked plainly.

“Don’t know. He left intelligence after I did, and I never knew where he went. Friend told me over the phone that the authorities found him dumped out in a field like a dog, but they won’t say nothin’ more. Won’t even say where.” He decisively knocked back the rest of his shot and watched that Hanzo did the same. “But I’m sure whatever happened, he deserved it.”

There was little more that Hanzo could say. The viciousness of McCree’s words, spoken in a smooth, calm tone, confused him. He burned with curiosity to know what this man had done, and what McCree had lived through. He had lived for so long without another soul who knew what it meant to spill blood, to risk his life in another’s name, and to survive the following precipitous descent.

“Your family’s got a lot of opinions ‘bout death,” McCree drawled slowly. “Am I supposed to miss him? Am I supposed to be grateful that he was alive?”

Hanzo thought about it for a few moments, staring down at the wood grain of the table. “I suppose that depends. How did you feel about him? What do you most remember?”

Nodding to himself absently, McCree murmured in defeat, “He was the most important person to me in the world. I loved him.”

The admission sucked all the air from Hanzo’s lungs. He felt as though his body was vacuum-sealed in plastic, and when McCree lifted his eyes again, understanding glimmered deep within: the secret Hanzo had left unspoken his entire life, laid bare in a scant three words, spoken by another mouth. A secret more unclean than any blood either of them had spilt.

He leaned forward on the table, covering his face, and tried to control his breathing. Fragments of memories returned to him. The crisp, verdant air of the compound gardens. The curve of Mitsuya’s arm. The brush of his fingers, a passing touch, his voice--and then his father’s face as he languished in his stagnant room, staring blankly out the window and never once looking Hanzo’s way. Even when Sojiro was out of sight, the weight of him was such that Hanzo could feel him no matter where he was in the house. Hanzo felt him in that room even when he left the compound and ventured into the city.

“So?” he heard McCree ask, and realized that he must have been quiet for some time. He sat up, avoiding McCree’s eyes, instead choosing to focus on his own hand while his heart raced.

“I think,” Hanzo began, pausing to clear his raspy throat, “I think that you can honor someone while being thankful that they are gone.”

McCree half laughed in exasperation. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “That doesn’t help me figure out what to do.”

“What do you _want_ to do?” Hanzo asked him, tone a bit harsher than he meant.

They stared at each other across the booth for a long moment. Hanzo felt like he saw every detail of McCree’s face, each edge of his solid frame, every soft and jagged part of him, and he hated how much what he saw reminded him of himself. But the hatred grounded him, and comforted him with its warmth. He watched the haze in McCree’s eyes clear, and his fist curl against the tabletop.

“I want a tattoo,” McCree declared. “A proper one this time. And I want to design it myself.”

Hanzo replied incredulously, “Yourself? Can you even draw?”

“Not well,” McCree admitted. His hand slid across the table, stopping only a few inches away from the tips of Hanzo’s fingers, and for a moment the heat of his hand was all Hanzo could think about. “Will you help me?”

No words would come out of Hanzo’s mouth. He merely nodded in agreement. The relief on McCree’s face and the softening of each tense line struck Hanzo deeply. He tried to fight the feeling that he had done something important.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five months. I can't BELIEVE it's been five months since I updated. Please accept my sincerest apologies.
> 
> Hope you are all keeping your heads above water with work, life, school, or whatever you're dealing with right now. They're tough times, but we can get through them together. Honestly, that's what I hope that this fic can be about for people--friends (eventually lovers ;) ) who make it through shit together.
> 
> TW for this chapter: Homophobia followed by emotional and physical abuse in a flashback.
> 
> There will be more in future chapters. If you ever have questions about trigger warnings that you want answered/spoiled before you read, feel free to leave a comment and I will answer them for you.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! And please forgive the mess--this is a little unpolished, and has only been proofread maybe one or two times.

When McCree insisted he design his tattoo himself, Hanzo was unsure what to expect. He also wondered what kind of help McCree could possibly want, when Hanzo’s singular job was to design for other people. Within the next week, McCree had scheduled an appointment, and the perfunctory tone of his voice over the phone left Hanzo uneasy.

In hindsight, he should not have wasted his time worrying, because upon the appointed time of their meeting, Hanzo glanced up from his desk to see McCree standing outside the window, knocking the glass with his elbow. An obscenely tall stack of magazines filled his arms, titles ranging from _National Geographic_ to _Cosmo_ emblazoned on their spines. And there was the cowboy hat again, crowning McCree’s head after only the briefest absence. Hanzo had half-hoped that McCree was turning a new leaf by leaving the hat behind for their discussion in the bar—now he realized that wish was foolish.

After a moment longer of staring aghast out the window, Hanzo heard McCree bellow, “Help.”

Hanzo jogged to the door and held it open as McCree shouldered inside. As he crossed the threshold, the brim of his hat brushed the door frame and it fell off onto the floor. Grimacing at the offensive article, Hanzo gingerly plucked it off the ground. Just by touching the fabric, he could feel a thin layer of grime transfer onto his fingers. In spite of that, he was relieved to find that no foul stench came from it, as he had feared. Only a faint hint of woodsy cologne.

Hanzo turned to find McCree setting the magazines down on Hanzo’s desk. As Hanzo returned the hat to him, he sighed, “Must you always bring this with you everywhere?”

Raising an amused eyebrow, McCree hummed, “Why? Don’t like it?”

“It just reminds me of every other redneck who grew up watching too many Westerns,” Hanzo answered, and that was phrasing his feelings politely.

McCree gave him a smirk, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Well shoot, Hanzo. You know that I only aim to wear what you think is cute.”

Hanzo winced and opened his mouth to retort, but stopped himself, instead choosing to push down the apprehension kindling in his chest. He drew up beside McCree to look over the magazines, trying not to stand too close.

“Quite the collection you’ve brought,” Hanzo noted in confusion. “This is—for the tattoo?”

“Yeah. I ain’t an artist, but I used to like doin’ collages in my spare time. It’s the only way I can think in pictures.” He started sorting out the magazines, mainly into two piles: one that was mainly _National Geographic_ , _Time_ , and hunting magazines, and the other was … everything else. “I figure if I can cobble together somethin’ decent, you’ll be able to draw it up fully later.”

Hm. That was a surprisingly good idea. 

“You don’t happen to have scissors, do you? And some glue?” McCree asked cordially, and Hanzo’s mood immediately soured.

He opened his mouth to shoot back a scathing retort, but paused and instead let out a long sigh. “I’ll see what we have,” and the mirthful smile that grew on McCree’s face made Hanzo’s body gradually relax.

-

In Hanzo’s schedule, he had carved out an hour of time for McCree. One hour went by, filled with the snips and snaps of scissors and the stapler they had to use, in lieu of glue. By the end of the time, McCree was still buried to his elbows in chopped-up magazines, and Hanzo himself was still carefully trimming snapshots from his own pile. So, he thought, maybe they could afford a few more minutes. He looked away from the clock on his computer screen for what felt like only several moments, and when he glanced back, “a few minutes” had turned into thirty.

Sheets of white printer paper littered the desk, each stapled with varying configurations of cutouts. The color schemes were almost invariably dark, muted, or black and white. And of course, the main subject of McCree’s infatuation never changed: he had cut out as many skulls as he could find. However, he had broadened his interests to include pieces of architecture, such as beams, bricks, and cinderblocks, or other sharply geometric shapes. At least these were more pleasing to the eye, and to the soul.

An appointment reminder jumped up on the desktop. He frowned, pensive. Soon, they truly would be out of time. Though McCree’s presence always drained his energy, he still felt remorseful.

As if hearing Hanzo’s thoughts, McCree lifted his head and asked in a thick voice, as if waking from sleep, “Time’s up by now, ain’t it?”

“I suppose,” Hanzo replied, feeling a pang of frustration that McCree had not noticed his kindness. “I have an appointment in about half an hour. I must begin making the preparations.”

“Mm,” McCree grunted, scanning the scraps of paper around him in a daze. He began cleaning up, storing the stapled sheets and leftover cutouts in the middle of a _National Geographic_ magazine. “Sorry for takin’ up your time.”

“You were still working,” Hanzo pointed out, and when McCree stared at him blankly, Hanzo clarified, “You obviously did not finish. And I assume none of the designs we put together held your interest.”

“I liked ‘em okay, but I dunno. I think I need to take ‘em home and do some more thinkin’,” McCree hummed, raising his arms in a languid stretch. The hem of his flannel button-up lifted just enough to reveal a trail of coarse hair on his abdomen, and Hanzo, horrified, found his eyes glued to it.

Hanzo offered begrudgingly, “If you are planning to come back anyway, I can keep the magazines here in my desk for you.”

“That’d be mighty kind of you,” McCree responded, eyebrows raising in surprise. As if Hanzo had not always treated him graciously. The urge to throttle him rose in Hanzo’s chest, but died away quickly when Hanzo noticed the dark circles under McCree’s eyes were not as pronounced as they had been during that night in the bar.

Pulling out the bottom left drawer in his desk, Hanzo jammed the paper materials he had in there toward the front, and cautiously squeezed the magazines into the back a handful at a time. When he straightened up and pushed the drawer closed with his foot, he saw that McCree was unfolding a ragged wallet. The faux leather lining the corners of each fold had peeled away, and his thick, sun-browned fingers picked up flakes of brown fabric as he produced a debit card from one of the pockets.

“How much extra do I owe ya’?” McCree asked.

Staring at him in confusion, Hanzo answered, “You just owe me for the hour.”

McCree’s face twisted into a grimace. “But you spent longer than that.”

“Yes, but this business does not determine price that way. I gave you a quote before we met, and so that is the price you pay. Surely you are familiar with our procedures by now, considering you come in here so often.”

“That don’t seem entirely fair,” McCree insisted, stoking Hanzo’s ire. “Should be payin’ for the work you did.”

“If I had known I would be spending today helping you assemble the equivalent of a college art project, I would not have let you pay me at all,” Hanzo retorted, ignoring McCree’s hurt expression long enough to ring him up on their digital card reader. He held out his hand expectantly, and grunted in frustration when McCree refused to relinquish it. “If you feel so bad for your imposition, perhaps you should start paying rent. With the amount of time you waste lounging around near my desk—”

“Alright, no need to keep chawin’ on me,” McCree sighed, handing over the card.

Their fingers brushed, warm, and that familiar apprehension needled at the back of Hanzo’s mind again. Numbly, he inserted the card into their chip reader. After returning it, he watched as McCree signed off on the purchase to make sure that he did not compensate by leaving an egregiously high tip.

“I appreciate you tryin’ to be nice, but it ain’t a good look on you,” McCree murmured once the transaction was complete.

Rolling his eyes, Hanzo scoffed, “You said it yourself earlier. Just as you aim only to please me, I cannot express how invested I am in ensuring your comfort. Here is your receipt.”

After a few moments of silent hesitation, McCree took the receipt from Hanzo, staring blankly at what Hanzo assumed to be the total of his bill. He stood there for so long that Hanzo worried he might have to throw the man out of his store.

Eventually, McCree bent down over the desk and snatched up one of Hanzo’s ink pens. He flipped over the receipt and, on the back, scribbled out a phone number. Sliding the flimsy paper toward Hanzo, McCree told him, “I still owe you. So, when you get off your shift today, you give me a call, and I’ll get you a coffee, or a tea, or an orange chicken plate, or whatever you can deign to eat on my dime.”

“Orange chicken? Really?” Hanzo responded, aghast. “That better be a joke.”

“Too Chinese for ya’?” McCree asked, a smile curling at his lips, and Hanzo felt like his head was going to explode. “What about takoyaki, then?”

Heat burned in Hanzo’s cheeks. Which, apparently McCree could see, given that his smile only grew wider. Hanzo growled threateningly, “Be careful. If you tempt me any further, I might remove you from this store forever. I might remove you from this entire city.”

“Awright, well, before you erase me, give me a call, if you don’t mind,” McCree replied with a snort. “It’ll make me feel bad if you don’t.”

“You’ve already paid. There is no _need_ ,” Hanzo insisted, growing angrier by the second. Even as he spoke, McCree turned and headed for the door. “I said _no_ , McCree—”

“Just think of it as doin’ me a favor,” McCree called over his shoulder. Then with a tip of his hat, and a jingle from the front door, he was gone.

-

There was little entertainment in the Shimada compound. Not far outside its walls lurked arcades, karaoke bars, and internet cafes, but Hanzo would not be caught dead prancing about in such shameful places. Neither did he have time to waste on most leisurely activities.

The only time he really had to himself was at night, once everyone had retired to their rooms. He would lay in his bed for a few hours, eyes closed, until restlessness forced him to sit up. He would then turn on his lamp, remove an old poetry book from his end table’s drawer, and read. The words transported him to other places, far more joyful and, occasionally, more melancholy than his own, and filled his head to bursting with images. He particularly enjoyed poems that described cities and man-made structures, cramped and homely, filled with everyday people. The beams of their houses and the hearths of their fires seemed so real that he felt them pushing against the inside of his skin at odd angles.

One night, feeling a little stifled by the rigid walls of his room, Hanzo decided that it might be nice to take an electric lamp and read in the garden. Spring had lazily bloomed over Hanamura, slowly enough that the mosquitoes had not yet taken up residence in the compound’s small pond. So, he crept out of his room, informing one of the nearby guards of his intention. He felt the guard’s eyes on him as he turned the corner in the hallway, heard footsteps following close behind. That was the one downside of this adventure: anywhere he went, even if it was to the toilet, one of their men had to follow.

He walked out into the garden, carrying a few dense books with him. Though it was small, the garden’s beauty was undeniable. It was a simple field of grass filled with small patches of white flowers, and it overlooked a small drop-off, at the bottom of which were the twinkling lights of the city below. Sitting cross-legged on the grass, he opened one—another poetry book—and held it under the lamplight, listening to the silence, which was penetrated only by the songs of crickets. The darkness comforted him, tuning out all ambient sights, allowing him to focus only on the pictures that his poetry painted in his mind.

An alarming noise broke his concentration: the sound of scuffling around the right side of the rocky drop-off that surrounded the garden. Hanzo sat up, blood rushing in his ears, and suddenly felt acutely aware that he had no weapon and was clothed only in his night robe. He raised his hand, preparing to give his guard a warning sign, when he saw fingers appear on the edge of the garden. Not a moment later, Genji popped over the side, and then froze mid-climb. They stared at each other, dumbfounded.

“Brother?” Genji asked in a daze.

“Genji!” Hanzo hissed. Panic surged higher in his chest. This was the worst time that Genji could have snuck out. He pushed against Genji’s shoulder and told him in a low voice, “Go back. You have to go back.”

Instead of simply _doing what Hanzo fucking told him to do_ , Genji replied dumbly, “What do you mean?”

From far away, Hanzo heard the guard call out Hanzo’s name. He looked to Genji, whose face was washed completely pale.

“Shit,” he whispered. His eyes were wide, brown, pleading. “Should I run?”

“You should have run when I _told_ you to,” Hanzo retorted hysterically. “If you go now, you will only make it worse for yourself. When father finds out, you will simply have to apologize, like you have done before.”

Genji’s hands snatched up the collar of his robe. His grip was so tight, the hem dug into the back of Hanzo’s neck. “He can’t find out. If he does, he will investigate where I’ve been.”

Eyebrows furrowing, Hanzo affirmed, “Of course. He always does. He does that to _protect_ you—”

The sound of the guard heading down the path to the garden drew their attention. His gun was drawn, but he quickly saw that their mystery intruder was Genji. He called out, “Genji-sama? Why are you out of your room?”

Terrified, Genji shook Hanzo again and begged, “This isn’t like all the other times, Hanzo. I left to be with a man.”

A tingling numbness started in the back of his skull, spreading down his spine, through to the tips of his fingers and toes. A distant ringing grew louder in his ears. He remembered Mitsuya’s smile and the expression on Soijiro’s face when he saw them leaving the changing room together.

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

Legs shaking, Hanzo pushed himself into a standing position and turned to face the guard, who had holstered his gun and now wore an incredibly stern expression. Hanzo stood between him and Genji, who still cowered on the ground, sweat beading at his temples.

“What is going on here?” the guard asked, gaze fixed on Genji.

Hanzo didn’t know what to do. There was nothing he could say, no excuse that would get Genji out of this predicament. But he had to say something.

“You have my deepest apologies,” Hanzo replied, trying to keep his voice firm. “I did not expect anyone to find out about this. Please, forget that you saw him tonight.”

Confused, the guard looked to him and inquired, “What do you mean? _You_ sent him out?”

“I asked him to deliver something on my behalf,” Hanzo lied, aware that with every question, his story would unravel. “An important delivery, to a friend of mine. I thought that, just this once, it would be fine.”

The guard’s face grew stern again. “Hanzo-sama, you’re aware that the clan has systems for deliveries. They must be inspected and delivered specially. You are normally such a stickler for rules, yet you expect me to believe that you sent Genji-sama out past his curfew for such a task?”

“Why—” Hanzo began, voice rising. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly, calming himself. “Why should all of my possessions be seen by the eyes of the entire clan? It was just a package for a friend.”

“We have these rules for a reason. You know that.”

Hanzo shot back, almost shouting, “Can I not have one thing to myself? Can I not do one thing _only_ for myself?”

His only reply was silence. And though Genji and the guard seemed stunned, Hanzo was more shocked to realize that, though he had made up that excuse, he genuinely meant what he said.

“Please. I beg of you: keep this between us,” Hanzo pleaded. When the guard’s expression did not soften, he dropped to his knees and prostrated himself. “I beg you. If you only allow me to keep this one privacy, I will forever be in your debt.”

“Brother,” Genji cried out in pain, crouching beside him. His hand went to Hanzo’s back, trying to lift him from the ground. “Do not humiliate yourself for me!”

And just what did Genji think Hanzo had done for him so many times before, for all the years of their lives? Forehead glued to the ground, Hanzo squeezed his eyes shut, suspended in fear for his brother, who had never suffered a serious consequence in his life. Though he deserved to be reprimanded for his behaviors, and though by now he was no longer a teenager, he was still just a boy at heart. He was not ready for the punishment their father would dole out to a fully grown man.

He waited an eternity in the darkness of the garden. All he heard from above him was a quiet, mournful, “I’m sorry.”

-

At the end of his shift, Hanzo found himself alone at his desk. Genji had left for the day, and Lúcio had closed his office door to take care of private business. That left Hanzo with his computer powered down, all his sketches and drawing accoutrements filed away, sitting at his desk and staring at McCree’s phone number.

Normally, hanging out with a client outside work was not allowed. Believing that his boss would back him up, Hanzo had asked Lúcio in passing about their policy. When he learned that Hanzo was asking on behalf of McCree, however, a wide smile broke out on his face and he said, “Oh, McCree? He’s great. You can hang out with him all you want.”

Now that he had the boss’s blessing, that made coming up with an excuse to refuse much harder.

The sheer abruptness of this situation confused Hanzo. He and McCree had not been getting on particularly well—they argued every time they met, and during their last meeting they only barely managed to reconcile. And dragging out anything personal from McCree was like trying to relocate a mountain, one shovelful at a time. So, then, perhaps he had truly only invited Hanzo out of obligation. To repay his fictional “debt.”

Also, wasn’t this kind of a tacky way to invite someone out? It reminded him of American movies, when a brash young woman scribbles down her phone number for a boy to call. The thought made him terrified. This was weird, right? Or was it? Maybe this was normal. If Genji were here, Hanzo could ask, but he was gone. And Hanzo would rather die than text Genji to ask for advice.

Did he really want to call McCree? He pleaded with himself to reconsider the matter. McCree was unbearable. But he also probably needed human contact right now. Hanzo knew that, in the weeks following the death of a loved one, a lack of social support could fatally disrupt the coping process. He regretted poking his nose into McCree’s business, because now he felt partially responsible. Though he knew he would be within his rights to act like nothing had happened, he couldn’t. The memory of McCree’s mournful face, warmly-colored eyes too empty to shed a tear, would not let Hanzo forget. He had trusted Hanzo with that—not any of his veteran friends. Not even the men he fought beside.

On the other hand, if they ended up talking about McCree’s dead friend again … _that_ topic might resurface. Simply imagining it made Hanzo’s skin crawl in fear. He wished he could forget McCree’s admission, but at the same time, the knowledge hidden therein tempted him. There were many questions he never had answers to as a young man, and perhaps others that he never knew he might have.

He stared at the phone number on the page, leg bouncing a mile a minute. He shouldn’t call. He knew he shouldn’t. Every single hair on the back of his neck stood up at the thought. But, eventually, he picked up the office phone and dialed McCree. It rang twice, filling Hanzo with the vain hope that McCree would not answer.

To his chagrin, the line clicked at the end of the third ring, and Hanzo heard McCree’s voice rumble, “You called me on the _office phone_? Geez, it really is all business with you, huh?”

“McCree,” Hanzo growled in warning, “Do you want to go for coffee or not?”

“What, no orange chicken?”

Infuriated, Hanzo slammed down the receiver. He stared across the room for a few moments, fuming, before he heard the desk phone ring. After a moment he picked up and heard McCree’s amused voice on the other end. “Right, so, coffee? Where you thinkin’?”

“There is a local coffee house a few blocks away from here. They serve tea and bagels as well, if you are hungry,” Hanzo added, immediately feeling foolish for caring what McCree felt.

“Fine by me. What’s the name?” McCree grunted. Once Hanzo gave him the name and address, McCree made a noise of recognition. “Oh, sure, I know where that is. You want to meet there, or should I come pick you up?”

“We can meet there. It’s only a short walk.”

“You’re gonna walk there? You don’t drive?” McCree asked.

Hanzo frowned. “I do, but my work is close to home, so there is no point in wasting gas.”

“Of course you’d say that,” McCree chuckled in that fond way that simultaneously enraged and baffled Hanzo. “Look, I’ll be passin’ by you on my way, so I’m gonna swing by and pick you up. Elsewise, I’ll be sittin’ in there waitin’ for you ‘till my ass falls asleep.”

“It’s not that far away,” Hanzo argued gruffly.

“Don’t be stubborn, Hanzo. Be there in ten.”

Before Hanzo could argue, the line clicked and went dead. He groaned in frustration. As if he wanted to ride around in McCree’s dingy old pickup truck again. Silently folding up his receipt, he hastened to complete end-of-shift housekeeping for his workstation.

In exactly ten minutes, just as McCree promised, he puttered into view outside the glass windows. Through the glare of the glass, Hanzo could see the dull green, dirt-smudged paint job of the truck, and the rust determinedly eating away at its aging frame. He grimaced at the thick clouds of exhaust that puffed out from the drooping tailpipe.

After bidding Lúcio goodbye, Hanzo hesitantly exited the shop. As soon as he stepped foot onto the sidewalk, McCree caught sight of him. He rolled down the window and shouted to Hanzo, “Hop on in. Your chariot awaits.”

Wincing in pain, Hanzo opened the passenger’s side door and climbed in. The metal rattled and creaked viciously when he yanked it closed. At his feet, he saw the same exact fast food bags and daily detritus that were there on the day they drove to the pub. There seemed to be a few new additions as well.

“Do you ever clean in here?” Hanzo asked.

“Well, sure, I have,” McCree replied vaguely. He reached for the cupholder between the seats and Hanzo saw him pull out a stumpy, half-smoked cigarillo. “Mind if I smoke? Been workin’ most of the day, and ain’t got the chance.”

So, he was a smoker. Hanzo had guessed as much, from the rough timber to McCree’s voice and the faint acrid smell that accompanied him wherever he went. Turning to look out the window, Hanzo said, “Go ahead.”

He heard the flick of a lighter and soon the scent of tobacco filled the cabin. The smell was nostalgic in a way that alleviated some of the tenseness in Hanzo’s frame. McCree must have noticed because he ventured, “Funny, I figured you’d have somethin’ against it.”

“Have you forgotten my family history?” Hanzo grunted in offense. “We passed a pipe around nearly every week, starting as soon as I could pack one.”

“Try not to sound too proud of yourself.”

Hanzo narrowed his eyes at McCree, chin lifting a fraction of an inch. “I’m not.”

All he received in response was a derisive snort, which he chose to ignore out of pure goodwill.

A comfortable silence followed and Hanzo became so lost in watching the passing store windows and bystanders that he was surprised when McCree pulled into the lot of the coffee shop what felt like only a minute later. Hanzo gingerly climbed out of the truck, trying not to let his legs come into direct contact with the garbage McCree had left in the floorboards. His disgust evaporated once he closed the door and glanced up at the outside of the cafe. There was no marquis—just a tiny wooden sign in the window that had the name painted on it in green lettering: “C&T.” A blackboard stood outside on the sidewalk, listing the special drinks of the season.

They walked into the homely establishment, which was outfitted with a few modest, cramped booths, small tables, and potted ferns that hung from the ceiling. There were only two customers in the whole shop—the cafe would be closing soon. And Hanzo preferred it that way: the presence of people, but without any obtrusive background noise.

They approached the small counter, placed their orders, and gave their names before snagging a booth by the window. The table was so small that when Hanzo and McCree simultaneously leaned forward to fold their arms on the table, they couldn’t keep their forearms from brushing together. Trying to be polite, Hanzo pulled back, almost too quickly. McCree’s eyes caught the motion and flicked up to his face questioningly.

“I’m surprised you know of this place. It’s invisible from the street,” Hanzo said, his tone coming out more curt than he had expected.

“Genji took me here once. Thought about comin’ back, but never had much of a reason, ‘cause I don’t live near here.”

McCree paused long enough to remove his hat, stowing it away on his lap, and with the brim’s shadow gone from his face, Hanzo realized how close McCree was. Every wrinkle stood out in relief, every hair a thin whisker jutting from his lip and chin. He must have had acne when he was younger, because his skin was peppered with small scars.

Conversationally, McCree asked, “Got any idea why it’s called ‘C&T?’”

Hanzo furrowed his brows in confusion. “Coffee and Tea.”

There was a pause. And then McCree threw his head back and barked a short laugh. “Really?”

“Yes, really. You didn’t know that?”

“Sounds just like you,” McCree snorted, scratching his fingers through his beard hair with that smug grin of his. “Dry. Practical.”

Hanzo rolled his eyes. “Is that so? I suppose we cannot all be gifted with your particular … _charm_.”

“Jesus, it was a joke,” McCree laughed again. He reached up with one hand to push his hair out of his face. From the hue and its softness, Hanzo realized that he had washed it, for once. “You’re all prickles, all the time.”

Hanzo sniffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “My job requires me to take care of my customers. It does not require me to suffer idiots.”

“I guess that’s the part that surprises me. You bein’ in a job like this, that needs caretakin’. You bein’ into somethin’ like art in general. You always act like you hate it,” McCree pointed out. He drummed his fingers on the table and Hanzo could feel the vibrations in his mind, remembering them from that night in the bar. “Do you actually _like_ doin’ tattoos?”

“Do I like _doing tattoos_ ,” Hanzo repeated incredulously, staring at McCree like he had sprouted a third leg. “McCree, I have been _doing tattoos_ for over a decade.”

“Sure, but that’s ‘cause it runs in your family. Doesn’t mean you necessarily gotta enjoy it. And the way Genji talks about your old man …”

“Genji is always spouting nonsense,” Hanzo hissed, though the words carried little malice. He took a deep breath and asked, “Look. Be truthful. How much has he told you about our childhood?”

The shrewd light in McCree’s eyes told Hanzo what he needed to know. Which was good, because he replied unhelpfully, “Nothin’ I could repeat in short order. Or in a professional setting.”

Sighing deeply, Hanzo stared at the tabletop, at the hair on McCree’s forearms and the rough, dead skin around his knuckles. The conversation always came back to Genji. For a while, Hanzo had almost half-forgotten that he was talking with a member of _Genji’s_ posse, and remembering this left a heavy feeling in his chest.

“I feel great remorse for Genji’s upbringing. But he was never given to filial piety, and it was never required of him. He can speak so poorly about our father because he had no need, or want, to bear the Shimada line’s responsibility.”

McCree quirked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Hanzo turned to look out the window, idly watching the cars pass. “In a traditional family, the first son is the most important. He is the one who shall support the parents, build the family further, and attain success. It was not Genji’s responsibility to understand our father’s circumstances. That was _my_ job.”

“I’m sure he was aware. He ain’t dumb, and I find it hard to believe he’s ever been,” McCree countered, an edge of defensiveness in his voice that raised Hanzo’s hackles.

“If he was,” Hanzo began bitterly, “then he certainly showed no gratefulness, and no sympathy—not toward me or our father.”

There was an oppressive silence for a few moments until they heard their names being called. Wordlessly, McCree stood and retrieved both drinks, setting Hanzo’s cup down in front of him. He had ordered tea and the delightful scent of jasmine and honey floated up from the mouthpiece of the lid. And McCree, of course, had gotten coffee.

“Thanks,” Hanzo murmured. He received a nod of acknowledgment.

“So?” McCree asked. Hanzo glanced up at him in confusion. “Art? You’re not givin’ me the sense you actually like it.”

Blowing carefully at his drink, Hanzo took a sip and huffed, “Art is a way of speaking without words. To hear thoughts and feelings without noise. That is the part I enjoy. The _act_ of drawing, however, is annoying. I prefer to do it with the aid of protractors and rulers.”

“Oh, so you don’t like it ‘cause it’s hard for you,” McCree hummed. Hanzo shot a glare at him, finding that a small smirk had made its way back onto McCree’s face.

Hanzo ground out petulantly, “It is not _hard_ for me.”

Sitting back in his seat, McCree gulped down his coffee, whiskered mouth twitching when he pulled the cup away. “Amazin’ to me that even after all this time, you and Genji ended up in the same place, workin’ at the same job.”

“I suppose that is thanks to Lúcio. He asked me to come on as part-time help during a busy period, and then offered me a decent raise to stay.” After a pause, Hanzo added in a firm voice, “Genji is lucky to have him.”

“Does the rest of the family like Lúcio?”

Hanzo’s gaze flicked back to McCree, alarmed. Dizziness lurched in his stomach and for a brief second, Hanzo feared he would become faint. He explained, “They—the family was long dissolved by the time that they started dating. Even if they hadn’t, he would never have told them.”

McCree’s eyebrows knitted together. “That bad, huh?”

Now it was Hanzo’s turn to be defensive. “It shouldn’t be surprising. Relationships between men are considered abnormal.”

“True. But Genji said he slept around a lot as a young man, so I figured they woulda known,” McCree clarified, shrugging his broad shoulders.

Gradually, Hanzo felt every muscle in his body tighten, starting in his lower back and spreading out to all of his limbs. He knew this feeling, knew what was coming, saw the shape of his father’s voice in his mind’s eye, and he struggled against it. He didn’t want to go _back_ there. Not right now. He just wanted a cup of tea and a _conversation_. That should be easy to have without going _back_ but it wasn’t, and the anger that boiled up inside Hanzo swelled along with hurt.

“They did. _Once_ ,” he growled. “After that, we made sure father would never know again—not about the men in Genji’s life who actually _mattered_.”

“‘We?’” McCree repeated.

“Yes, ‘we.’ He’s my brother.”

He let that hang in the air, as if it explained everything. To his surprise, McCree nodded in understanding. The firm hold of his stare disarmed Hanzo with the depth of its respect. The sight was too much, too perplexing, and Hanzo redirected his attention to the window. Outside, the sun shone lazily through the off-white clouds, casting light without heat. Somewhere, Hanzo knew, children were playing together and laughing without a care for the future.

“I find it … strange. That now, he can say he loves a man. It is no less dangerous for them to be together in this country, and yet—”

“Well, he’s certainly more ‘out’ than a lot of people. Helps that his boyfriend runs his job.” McCree slugged most of his drink, letting out a breath of satisfaction. “Other places, though—hoo boy. Don’t even get me started on the armed forces. Tryin’ to get laid while workin’ in intelligence was like tryin’ to hide an extra eye.”

The idea made Hanzo wince in pain. Blood began to pound in his ears and he covertly checked the sidewalk for any unwelcome eyes, as if simply talking about this would expose him. When he was sure he was safe, he asked, “Was it truly so difficult? If you had been caught, all they could do was discharge you.”

McCree shrugged again. “Sure, but since I came from crime, they woulda sent me right back to prison. So, I had to learn how to tiptoe real quiet, if you catch my drift.”

The vulgar euphemism made Hanzo wrinkle his nose. “You could have abstained.”

McCree squinted at Hanzo in suspicion. “My minimum service time was around five, six years. You tellin’ me you’d be able to keep the chastity belt on for that long?”

“My parents expected me to wait until marriage. So, yes, I can certainly imagine it,” Hanzo replied, staring at him in disbelief.

“Expected, sure,” McCree acceded, tipping his empty cup toward Hanzo. “But did you actually _do_ that?”

He wasn’t _wrong_ , and that made Hanzo hate him even more. A memory floated back to him, unbidden, of one sweaty night with a girl, a friend from the city whom he _thought_ he could like. It had been terrible, all awkward grunting and passionless embraces, and Hanzo had spent the rest of the night in her bed weighed down by guilt.

McCree’s snickering brought him back to awareness. Hanzo covered his face with a hand, cheeks burning in humiliation. “We are not discussing this,” he growled and, thankfully, McCree left it at that.

Following a beat of silence, McCree asked, “You said you liked geometric art, right? You ever heard of a guy named Paul Klee? Swiss painter?”

Hanzo hadn’t. McCree pulled out his phone and searched the name, propping it up so they could both see at the same time. His sun-browned fingers flicked the screen, scrolling through image results that were packed with paintings brimming over with blocks of bright color. Frowning pensively, Hanzo inquired, “I know this style. What is it called again?”

“Cubism?” McCree replied, leaning forward on his elbow on the table. “That’s what it’s called when there’s all the little squares and rectangles, right? He did other styles, too, though, I think. Found him in a magazine I was savin’ one time. You’d probably like him.”

The colors certainly were pleasing to the eye. Many of the paintings were arranged with equally-sized squares, like a hard-edged mosaic, or the gridded porcelain on a tile floor. Pretty standard for cubism. As McCree scrolled through the images, Hanzo only half-listened to the low hum of his commentary, partly lost in the mental images they inspired. Maybe, perhaps, if the squares were much smaller, the rectangles thin, and the palette muted ...

“Y’know, some of these remind me of that one tattoo you designed—the checkerboard looking one that’s hanging above your desk.”

Checkerboard? Hanzo couldn’t recall. Brows furrowing, he eventually realized the design McCree was talking about. He corrected, “That was a chessboard. I hate that one.”

“What for? I thought it was great,” McCree countered.

Hanzo grumbled, “That was the first draft. I have a much better version at home. However, the client chose the first draft, so there was nothing I could do. And Lúcio only wants us to hang up the designs that have made it onto the skin of our customers.”

“I think you just hate anythin’ that I like,” McCree suggested, to which Hanzo could only reply with a withering glare. The annoyance fled into a cold nook inside him as he realized again how close McCree was. McCree’s elbowed him with one warm, muscular forearm and gave him a smile that radiated friendliness, all the way to the whiskey-flecked rims of his pupils. “You should show me sometime.”

Eyes flicking down to McCree’s arm then back up again, Hanzo responded, “What?”

“Your drawin’. The one you like better.”

Hanzo sat back against his seat, enlarging the distance between them. His gaze wandered off around the cafe, blindly searching for another object of interest. “I’ll consider it.”

Soon after, they exited the shop, Hanzo still sipping on his lukewarm tea. When they returned to the truck, Hanzo realized he would have to share leg room with week-old greasy paper and cardboard burger boats. He climbed up into the cabin, stored his tea in the cupholder, and began gingerly gathering up all the trash.

“What in God’s name are you doin’?” McCree asked him, as if it weren’t obvious.

Ignoring him, Hanzo hopped out of the car and took the trash to a black garbage can that stood sentinel on the sidewalk between the C&T and the adjacent store. Now he felt free to stretch out, and he relished in the new abundance of space in the floorboard.

He sighed in self-satisfaction. “This interior is quite quaint, when you’re not treating it like your personal dumpster.”

A raspy laugh reached his ears. “Aw, Hanzo. That was almost a compliment.”

Hanzo chose not to respond, turning to look out the window as McCree drove him back to Accelerate. When Hanzo unhooked his seatbelt and moved to exit the truck, he felt one of McCree’s hands touch his shoulder. He had seen McCree’s hands: he knew they were big, wide even by a man’s standards, but now he was shocked to find they felt far larger than they looked. He stopped, fingers frozen on the door handle, and turned back to McCree, whose tanned face seemed that much warmer, backlit by the evening sun filtering through the window.

“Hey. Look. I appreciate you helpin’ me out with this tattoo thing.”

McCree made no effort to pull away, and the weight of his palm left a burning imprint through Hanzo’s shirt. The sincerity of his expression tugged at a thread in Hanzo’s chest, and the inside of his ribcage suddenly felt dry, hollowed out. He couldn’t remember the last time that someone had touched him. At least, not in a friendly way.

With a surge of panic, he wondered if he had given McCree the wrong impression. But when he searched McCree’s face, he found no sign of expectations. Just McCree—the sleepy lines carved into his face, champagne light dappled in rings around his irises, his scruffy beard, and his thin lips, which smiled so easily.

McCree continued, “I get that you’re try’na be a good employee, but you’re doin’ me a favor, so I owe ya’. How ‘bout grabbin’ coffee again in the future?”

Anger rose in Hanzo’s chest again, along with a stab of hurt. “I already told you: you owe me nothing. I made time today for _you_ , not an imaginary debt.”

He saw McCree’s eyes narrow in thought. After a moment of chewing it over, he suggested, “Well, then, you can buy next time. How’s that sound?”

The frustration vanished. Face softening, Hanzo examined McCree, his posture, his expression. McCree was all warmth, ruddy colors, and a heavy paw that rested lightly on his shoulder. At a loss, Hanzo nodded. “Alright. I will.”

McCree gave him one of his slow, wide smiles. “Fair ‘nough.” He finally pulled his hand away, leaving Hanzo’s skin with only a trace of dull warmth. He pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped on the display, and then handed it to Hanzo. “You gotta give me your number, though. Can’t be visitin’ the tattoo parlor every single time I wanna get hold of you.”

That was sensible. Reasonable, even. And definitely a bad idea. McCree was already a handful, and more than that, dangerous. He was exactly the kind of person that Hanzo had been taught to fear. Too flippant. Too clever. Too friendly.

In a rare fit of irrational behavior, he added his number to McCree’s contacts and passed back the phone. Within seconds, McCree sent him a text, and then his number was in Hanzo’s phone, too. It felt elementary, and much easier than he thought it would be.

As he climbed out of the car, McCree called after him, “I’ll give you a ride again next time.”

Fantastic. By then, a whole new pile of debris would have collected in the spot Hanzo was intended to occupy. He grimaced at McCree through the open passenger door.

“Just do me a favor,” he requested with uncharacteristic politeness, “and keep the truck clean.”

-

Two guards stood as sentinels behind Hanzo and Genji while they waited for Sojiro in the main hall. He had kept them waiting until the hard floor chewed into Hanzo’s knees where he knelt on the floor. Genji fared no better, and would likely have paced the entire room if not for the threat of the guard looming at his shoulder.

Hanzo’s mind raced to come up with a story that would fit his earlier lie. The fictional “delivery” Genji had carried out for Hanzo would never convince their father. Maybe if Hanzo had the time, he could solidify a viable excuse, but a single granule of time was all he had left.

Yet, he had to think of _something_. Their father could never know. At the merest suggestion of Hanzo’s deviance, he had dismissed Mitsuya, and burdened Hanzo with his distrust. But if he knew that Genji, the vulnerable second son, the wayward sheep, had gone out to commit such acts in the flesh—Hanzo couldn’t bear to think of it.

If only Genji had told Hanzo first. Why had he kept this secret? Did Genji truly think so little of Hanzo, that he expected him to be exactly like their father in every way? That Hanzo could not spare him consideration?

The unmistakable clack of Sojiro’s cane drew their attention. Hanzo’s head snapped up as he saw their father enter the room. He was flanked by two guards whom he dismissed as he reached the center of the hall, facing his sons. His sharp eyes were unreadable, as cold and black as unlit coals. Not even disappointment was visible in his expression, and that made all sound and sensation grow quiet inside Hanzo’s body.

“Leave us. Close the door behind you,” Sojiro instructed the guards. They bowed their heads and did as they were commanded, sliding the screens shut on their way out.

The resounding silence was so oppressive that Hanzo could feel it pressing against the inside of his skull. He wanted to speak first but waited, knowing that such insolence would only place him at a disadvantage. Thankfully, Genji followed his lead.

Just when it seemed Sojiro would never speak, he prompted in his low, somber voice, “Have you nothing to say for yourselves?”

Hanzo bent in half, pressing his forehead to the ground. “Father, this is my fault. Genji was acting at my request. He—”

“I am not interested in your excuses,” Sojiro hissed, forcing Hanzo into silence. The clack of his cane approached, stopping just shy of Hanzo’s head. Hanzo did not dare lift himself up. “The guards told me of your ‘delivery’ to a friend. As if you expected me to believe such a lie.”

“It is not a lie, father,” Hanzo argued uselessly, eschewing all reason. “Genji is swift, and I wanted the item delivered quickly. Our clan’s processes are thorough and time-consuming, and though I should not have, I regretted the expense. The package was so harmless, I just thought—perhaps, just this once—”

“You thought you could hide it from me,” Sojiro concluded.

Each word was devoid of emotion. Hanzo had never heard his father this way. He knew the consequences of this transgression would be steep, but he had not realized how deeply Sojiro’s resentment would flow. At Hanzo’s left side, Genji sat still, noiseless except for the hitching of his breath.

A hand fisted in Hanzo’s hair, yanking him up so that he stared his father in the face. His scalp burned, skull aching from the sudden shift. Sojiro was bent over him, braced on his cane, an unfaltering marble statue with the remorseless, black eyes of a koi.

“What is his name?”

Hanzo’s stomach dropped. “What?”

The hand in his hair pulled harder and he had to sit up ramrod straight to ease the pain. As Hanzo grit his teeth, Sojiro spoke in a tone as smooth and unhurried as a stream. “It cannot be Mitsuya. So, it must be another. Perhaps that young man you worked with in the Fuji district?”

The ground lurched beneath Hanzo. He did his best not to tremble and show weakness. “Father. This is not—Mitsuya was _not_ —”

Mercifully, Sojiro released Hanzo, and the pain in his scalp subsided into a dull soreness. Sojiro continued, “I have tried to be understanding, but you test my patience. However, I am willing to forgive you again. All I ask is that you tell me his name.”

No. He couldn’t give Sojiro a name. If he did, he knew that person would not survive the night. He prostrated himself again, mind reeling. “I swear to you, father, it was a package to a _friend_. If you want to see it, I shall bring it back.”

“If that is _all_ , there should be no trouble,” Sojiro countered. Hanzo rose to meet his gaze and found it frozen. Not a trace of warmth or compassion illuminated his father’s expression. Lifting his cane, Sojiro aimed the ornate handle between Hanzo’s eyes. “Hanzo. You have already made me doubt the strength of your loyalty. Do not make me ask again.”

Hanzo held his trembling jaw closed. He had to say something. The punishment for a traitor far outweighed any he had ever suffered. And as the leader of the Shimada clan, Sojiro could not afford to show mercy, even to his sons. Telling Sojiro the truth was not an option. Hanzo could not sacrifice Genji. But he could not speak the name of an innocent man, either. If he did, he would forever taste the blood on his lips.

It was him, or Genji, or a guiltless acquaintance. And Sojiro stood there, impassive, awaiting his choice. Hanzo opened his mouth and drew breath to speak.

“Yamada Toya.”

Genji’s voice shocked both of them. Hanzo and Sojiro turned to face him. He clutched at the fabric of his pant legs with tight fists, staring at the floor. Tears clung to his eyelashes.

He choked out, “His name is Yamada Toya. And it was I who sought him out, not Hanzo.”

“Genji, stop,” Hanzo pleaded, his entire body burning with cold fire.

“There was no delivery,” Genji continued desperately. His thin frame, already rugged for his age, shook harder with each word that left his mouth. “I left of my own accord, to spend the night with a friend. Hanzo knew nothing of this until I returned. He has concocted this lie to protect me.”

The air grew still, brittle, crackling like aged, yellowed parchment. Hanzo’s eyes flicked to Sojiro, desperately trying to unpack his expression. There was nothing there. A nothingness deeper than nothing, deeper than the blackest parts of the ocean, so void that the raising of Sojiro’s eyebrows seemed but a pathetic imitation of emotion. He was unrecognizable.

“Father. Do not listen—” Hanzo started but was silenced by Sojiro’s hand. The cane, frozen until now, pulled away from him.

He spoke quietly to Hanzo, head bent in pensive thought. His posture remained threatening, every muscle coiled. “My son … I wish I could commend your devotion to your brother.” The line of his mouth thinned, and his lip trembled. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, Hanzo saw his father’s spirit return to his face. “Yet, what you are truly protecting is yourself.”

“Please don’t blame Hanzo,” Genji begged. He surprised them again by kowtowing, nearly banging his forehead against the ground in his hasty appeal. “I asked him to save me. I was afraid of the consequences. I—”

“To be a man is to face the repercussions of your own actions,” Sojiro interrupted firmly. When his eyes snapped open again, that trace of his normal self had vanished. In its place was a regal determination. “And there _will_ be repercussions.”

He strode toward the folding screen doors at the end of the main hall, calling the guards back in. “Take them back to their rooms. They are not to leave for any reason. I will come when I have decided what to do with them.”

Nodding curtly, the two guards approached, and Hanzo felt himself roughly yanked to his feet. He watched in horror as Genji was dragged off, staring helplessly back at him. Though he did not dare to say a word, all of his body language beseeched Hanzo to intervene. There was nothing Hanzo could do.

As the other guard tugged Hanzo forcefully out of the hall, Hanzo cast his gaze toward his father. Sojiro stood alone in the hall, his back turned. He refused to spare Hanzo a single glance, remaining posed in place with all the stoic grace of a statue as Hanzo was pulled into the corridor.


End file.
